Predictable, which didn’t help. “Strip down, and we’ll time how long until boredom sets in.”
Vienna looked at the bedside clock and her hands went to the top button of her blouse.
Justine winced and took hold of her fingers. “Vienna, with you avoiding me, I thought you no longer wanted to be with me.”
Vienna shook her head once and pitched herself forward in an awkward hug—arms held stiffly behind Justine. “You know that isn’t right!”
Justine was left queasy at the effortless manipulation. Vienna shifted closer and Justine understood her want, probably better than she did. Not now. She disentangled herself. Maybe not ever again.
“Business before pleasure.”
Vienna’s gaze lowered.
“Don’t give me that. You’re the one who got me thinking I might be in trouble. Time to find out.”
“How?”
“By being a pain in the ass.” Justine pulled her BlackBerry from the table. She navigated past Igor Czasky’s secretary in record time.
“Mr. Czasky?… Fine, all things considered … yes … she’s with me now … no, no, nothing like that. Given recent events, I don’t feel it would be right to hold you to our contract for the Clay to Flesh series.… I appreciate that, Mr. Czasky, but I’m not certain I can face work, with the death of Grant … I see … No, that won’t be necessary.… well, then I accept. Thank you … yes … good-bye.”
Justine turned the phone off. “How unsettling was that?” she said to Vienna. Vienna’s face went blank, and Justine couldn’t help smiling. “You’re cute when you’re lost. Free of the world’s worries. I like that.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Do you know why?”
“No. It’s mean.”
“It’s something you have to discover for yourself.” She set the BlackBerry down. “Czasky added a huge bonus for staying on. What do you make of that?”
“He’s nice?”
“Not in this business.”
Vienna swirled a lock of hair in her fingers, adding another layer of tangles. “The manikins are in private collections, yeah? Getting permission to shoot them must have been hard.”
“Agreed.”
“If there’s a tight schedule, bringing in a new model might ruin that?”
“Every girl strutting every catwalk under the sun would be on a plane inside thirty minutes for a payday like this. Something else.”
“Maybe it’s important that you and no one else keeps the schedule?” Vienna asked.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Then why are the manikins being replaced?”
“We aren’t certain they are.”
“Don’t be thick. Someone made a mold of the statues, using sand since that would produce a smaller replica. Then maybe a polyvinyl chloride polymer with kaolin clay and—” She paused. “Kaolin means ‘high hill.’” She blushed and added a slight shrug. “Get the chemistry right, paint it like the original, and the texture would pass for polished wood. The mass would be off though.”
“I don’t buy it. How long would it take to make a duplicate? A week? A month?”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong. You don’t know anything. Polymers set within two hours. The rest would be finishing work. Maybe three days if you worked really hard.”
“That’s a day less than the project requires for each manikin. Clothes need to be fit and crates need to be constructed for carrying everything to location.” Justine shook her head. “But still pointless. There isn’t any money in it.”
“Then for another reason. How many are left to photograph?”
“London, Reykjavík, and your namesake.”
“They haven’t found what they are after, or else they wouldn’t be in such a hurry to keep going.”
“They?”
“Czasky and whoever else is interested in your work,” Vienna answered.
Justine folded her arms in front of her. “Including you?” Vienna shook her head, a cold front gathering in her eyes. Justine pushed harder. “In fact, you top the suspect list.”
“Stop it!”
Just can’t help yourself, can you? “Might have to search you.”
Vienna froze. Vanishing inside herself, trying so hard to think her way through such transparent innuendo. “Okay?” was all she finally said. Far too shaky for what had already happened.
“For now, we need to—”
There was a solid knock on the door. Justine unfolded herself from the bed. She glanced through the peephole and opened the door in surprise. James Hargrave. Vienna’s right. He does look like a cowboy.
He held out his hand. “James Hargrave, Hargrave International Talent.”
Justine hesitantly shook his hand. The black face of his watch caught the light, the small travel chronometer already set one hour behind for tomorrow’s trip to London. Hargrave S.O.P. to make certain he set his watch to local time after travel.
“I would say I’m a sucker for hard-luck cases, but the truth is that as a skilled parasite I still sense money.” He tilted his head as if appraising art. “Besides, I’ve grown fond of you and all your thorns. I would like to come back.”
“There isn’t much left to represent.”
“Enough to rebuild. You’re still the best there is. I couldn’t bring myself to do anything other than delete all the crap I sent you.”
Justine looked at Vienna. But she was gone, wrapped inside herself as she rocked gently on the bed. Her gaze as distant as Elvis back in Tupelo.
12
London
Out of the jet fuel chaos of Heathrow and on the Tube. Mind the gap. When the rails were above ground, Vienna saw blue sky flash through fences. She’d expected cold fog, so now her steel-colored culottes and dark top were too warm. They were pretty though. One of twelve tailored outfits that had followed her here, carried on a cushion of Justine Am’s wealth.
From the Charing Cross Station on foot to the Savoy. The Thames beside them as dark and primal as Gihon flowing from the Garden. Vienna saw words from an American named Emily Dickinson. Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day; Without suspecting our abode, until we drive away.
“Why didn’t you take the car with Mr. Hargrave and our luggage?” she asked. She didn’t feel like walking through the ghosts of London. The home she had before Grayfield forced her out.
“It’s too nice to be in a car.”
“But you’re filthy.”
“Filthy?”
“Rich.”
“To paraphrase you, rich people can do whatever they want and there’s not much you can do about it.”
“That’s completely off the tracks.”
“Said the broken girl.”
Vienna went silent.
“Anyway, I don’t like taxis here. Something you’d drive over the end credits of classic film noir. Cagney behind the wheel and a blonde stuffed in the trunk.” She smiled. “Boot, before you ask.”
Vienna had no idea what that was supposed to mean. Before she could make anything up, she heard footsteps from behind.
“You owe me a Nikkor 17-to-55 stabilized zoom.”
Vienna turned and saw the long-haired photographer from the Brussels gelato shop.
“You owe me for sucking air that actual humans might use,” Justine said.
“If that’s the best you have, keep your day job.” His eyes were pinched like he was looking at the sun, and his voice was quiet. The tattoo on his forearm ugly and mean as a scab.
“Why are you following us?” Vienna asked.
The man shook his head, stringy hair brushing across his forehead. “Something going down here. It’ll play out big.”
Justine exhaled through her teeth. “You know, after Di’s death, they don’t much like your kind in London.”
“Don’t be so precious. Without my kind, your kind wouldn’t exist.”
“Newsflash, asshole: I don’t care. Go spawn in someone else’s slime trail.”
“Harsh wo
rds from someone who used to be a pressroom darling. Why the vitriol?”
Justine glanced at Vienna.
“So it’s true. You’ve fallen for the wind-up toy? Beauty and the bizarre. You want a medal? I couldn’t care less who you sleep with.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want to know why David Andries is dead.”
“So would the police. Ask them.”
“They gave me the usual runaround, but the truth is they have no idea.”
“So shoot yourself and ask him in person.”
“I would rather find answers from this side of the grave.”
“And have you?” Vienna asked.
He turned to face her. “Your coworker, Cecile Doren, identified David Andries from a set of photos I showed her.”
Why would Cecile know him? “What else?”
“David Andries’s father had several friends within the Order of the Golden Fleece. There was a time when he was very well connected.”
“Was?”
“Ostracized several years ago. David was deeply bitter over his father’s disgrace.”
“Get him a shrink,” Justine said.
“Justine, please,” Vienna said. “Why was David’s father driven out?”
“Have you heard of the Star of Memphis?”
Vienna followed the words. “No.”
“A shame. It’s an interesting story.”
“What does it have to do with David Andries?”
The man’s greasy smile returned. “What can you offer for my hard-won knowledge? It didn’t come cheap.”
“Vienna, you can’t deal with this pig.”
“You can’t stop me. Tell me what you know.”
The photographer gave a mock bow. “We’ll settle later.”
“With what,” Justine demanded.
“Exclusive with Vienna. My choice of venue.”
“No deal,” Justine said.
“If what you say helps us, I agree,” Vienna quickly said.
“Good. You’re staying at the Savoy?”
Vienna looked at Justine. “We are,” she said.
“Then we’ll meet at the American Bar at five o’clock?”
“You haven’t given us a reason,” Justine said.
“That’s for Vienna to decide.”
Justine turned to her. “I don’t want you doing this, okay?”
Vienna thought that was stupid, but people were already looking their way. Not that Justine would care. She would keep arguing until her feet took root and drained the Thames. “Okay.”
Justine’s smile was tight-lipped. “Game over.”
The man rubbed his thumbs across his fingertips. “Did you know Andries was in Scotland before he came out to see you? His destination appeared to be Glasgow, but he went to a place named Dumfries, not far from Lockerbie.” He put his hand into a nose-dive. “My source in Glasgow suspects David had a bonnie lass stashed away, but I don’t buy it.”
“Why not? He lied about everything else.”
“Because there was no percentage in it, and Andries never did anything unless he had an angle. You’ve heard rumors connecting him to the murder of a German art dealer?”
“Never proven,” Justine said.
Why would she defend him?
“All the same, I looked for artists in Dumfries. Came across a gent by the name of Julian Dardonelle—clearly not from a local family. I gave him a call.” Small teeth flashed. “He wasn’t home. The day after David Andries was shot, Julian washed out of the Schelde.”
Vienna tracked the name down. “The river that flows through Antwerp.”
“The same.” The photographer spread his arms wide. “The police have no reason to connect the two deaths.”
Justine closed her eyes. “Meaning?”
He shook his head. “Five o’clock, American Bar.”
“If we aren’t there by five-oh-one, we aren’t coming.”
The man nodded. “Till then.” He turned away.
“Wait,” Vienna said. “What’s your name?”
The man gave her a puzzled look, as if he hadn’t expected to be asked. “Gary Sinoro.”
Another two blocks and they were inside the art deco Savoy; up to a top-floor suite. Leather chairs and two queen-sized beds guarded by a squad of mahogany posts. Vienna looked down at the Thames. Lord Davy would be somewhere in the city. As well as Arthur Grayfield, his smile warm and comforting. Just another lie.
Vienna found nothing better to do than fidget while Justine inspected her wardrobe. The most expensive dress in the world is thought to be the diamond-laden spider web worn by Samantha Mumba at the premiere of … Boring.
After series of calls from her BlackBerry, Justine spent thirty minutes in the adjacent room talking with Hargrave. When she returned she went to her closet. “What is it, Vienna?”
“Does there have to be anything?”
“Yes.”
“We have to see Mr. Sinoro.”
Justine sighed. “We are, after all, professionals.”
Vienna felt the sticky irritation that crawled through every conversation with Justine. “What does that mean?”
“All that reading and no Hunter S. Thompson?” Justine gathered her workout clothes.
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“It’s impossible to understand Americans unless you read Hunter S. Thompson. He was our inner rage and our finest muse.” She started changing clothes. “I have a Kindle here.…” She dug into one of her bags and handed the e-reader to Vienna. “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.”
“Does this mean we’ll meet Sinoro?”
“It does.” Which was unfair because Vienna had practiced several arguments and now she didn’t need them.
She turned her attention to the e-book and paged through the contents. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. What a stupid title. She read the introduction and saw that Hunter S. Thompson committed suicide by shooting himself. Which was as American as you could get.
“I have to do my Pilates, be back in ninety minutes. And Vienna? Don’t leave the room.”
“Okay.”
Vienna began reading, impatient with how slowly the machine turned pages. It started sort of funny, in that way that never made you really laugh, but then it got mean. And then terrifying. But it couldn’t be true, could it? It was just a stupid story. Vienna was using the Sony to search for the definition of “sunshine blotter” when Justine returned. “What did you think of the book?”
Vienna gave the rehearsed answer. “Strange.”
That made Justine laugh. “Not as strange as reality. But I see you have other concerns.”
Vienna closed the laptop. “What do we do now?”
“Preliminary Clay to Flesh session tomorrow at the Eye.” Justine started stripping down as she talked. She’s comfortable being naked in front of me. So? She was comfortable being naked in front of everyone. Vienna didn’t want to think about that.
“Will Mr. Hargrave be there?”
“He’s more of a behind-the-scenes operator.”
“Do you think he’s involved in replacing the statues?”
“He’s making a great deal of money representing me. It’s in his best interest that this goes smoothly. And despite his joking, I think he does care for me.”
“You should refuse to do any more.”
“Why so jumpy?” Justine was nude, letting her hair down. Vienna thought the sheen of sweat was pretty, but Americans were fussy about such things. She would be upset to know what I am thinking. Best not to look.
Vienna turned away, shifting into uneasy suspicion. Maybe Justine Am didn’t care if people saw her naked because Justine Am wasn’t real. “Prosopon,” she whispered. A mask.
“Vienna?”
Vienna dragged herself back to Justine’s question. “Sinoro mentioned the Order of the Golden Fleece. They include the ruling monarchs of Europe and a good portion of Asia.”
“That’s more than mildly alarmi
ng.”
Why were Americans so ignorant? “The Order of the Golden Fleece is an honorary title started in 1430 by Philip the Good.” Vienna saw that Philip captured Joan of Arc and that her fate had been sealed years before with the assassination of John the Fearless by the Dauphin. “Dauphin the dolphin,” Vienna whispered. But dolphins didn’t matter because Justine was looking at her, and she didn’t look angry or impatient like everyone else did. Vienna felt herself blushing, which was thick as two short planks, so she went on with what she’d been trying to say. “You can look up every living member online. It’s a trinket rich people get to add to their names. It’s not like they all get together in a secret lair and don black robes and decide how to run the world.”
“Perhaps I’ve seen too many James Bond movies.”
“A complete tosser. Besides, we were told that Andries’s father was associated with the order, not that he was a member himself. There are numerous ancillary organizations.”
“Filled with wealthy individuals?”
“I assume so.”
“Paranoia aside, powerful people rarely get that way by mistake. They see a different world than we do.” Justine walked to the bathroom, talking over her shoulder. “Still, it’s worth remembering that Sinoro’s idea of a solid source is the nearest gossip blog.” She paused. “Vienna? Why did you turn away?”
“I didn’t want you to be embarrassed.”
Justine stopped moving. What is she thinking, behind the mask? “I have to shower,” Justine said. Which told Vienna nothing. “Then we’ll see what Sinoro has.”
By the time they left the suite, Vienna felt the greasy anxiety of Thompson’s book leaching through her. We are, after all, professionals.
The oversized leather chairs of the American Bar threatened to swallow her. Justine had some trick that kept her afloat. They waited three hours, but the photographer failed to show.
“Typical,” Justine said. “Bedtime. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
13
Justine thought Boadicea was an odd name for the London manikin. Hadn’t the Warrior Queen burned the place to the ground? Or had that been the Romans? Vienna would know the story, footnotes and all. Better not ask with anything under fifteen minutes to spare.
The statue had a round face and dark bourbon eyes under a Japanese hime cut. Hardly expected coiffure for a barbarian, and the one-off eye color meant contacts for Justine. Early on, some genius from Czasky’s publisher thought it would be clever if Justine’s eyes matched the manikins’. An obscure meta-statement on reality versus image that would be exploited by intellectuals as an excuse to buy the book. Heaven forbid the real reason ever be mentioned.
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