by J. B. Turner
Nathan had never heard such a torrent of artspeak in such a short time. He felt as if his head were going to explode. Waves of bullshit she’d picked up from friends, coffee-table books on modern art, and no doubt from the New York Times. She didn’t realize how much verbiage she was spewing. She seemed to think he was under her spell. The fact of the matter was he was very tempted to burst out laughing in her face. But that wouldn’t achieve anything. Instead he listened politely, nodding sagely as she held court with him, a smiling assassin. Her lack of self-awareness was staggering. It was almost touching.
“Are you OK?” she asked, snapping him back to reality.
Nathan gulped the rest of his wine and put the empty glass on the bar. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “Just a bit distracted thinking about a call I have in an hour. I’m trying to set up a time to meet this guy later in the year.”
“Is he in the industry?”
“Yeah, he is.”
“Stop teasing. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m John. John MacKay. He’s an old friend of mine from when I lived in London.”
She sipped the rest of her glass of wine and smiled. “How exciting. Is he well known?”
Nathan frowned as if he were thinking hard. “You could say that.”
“What’s his name?”
“David Bailey . . . That name mean anything to you?”
“Are you kidding me? You know David Bailey?”
“Sure. I occasionally stay at his place in London if I’m working in the UK. I used to drink with him, hang out. He’s a friend.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, John?”
Nathan grinned.
“Seriously?” she said.
“I need to talk to him about an assignment I have coming up in London. He’s helping me find the right assistant. He’s also great at coming up with ideas.”
“Of course he is! He’s David fucking Bailey!”
“He’s a great guy.” Nathan was elated at how well this was going.
The bartender poured the girl another glass of white wine, and Nathan asked for a bottle of Heineken.
“I can’t believe you know one of my heroes!” she said. “That’s crazy.”
Nathan smiled.
“Have you seen his iconic photos of the Kray twins?”
Nathan nodded, thinking the name sounded like a 1980s pop-synth group.
“This must be fate.”
“I guess so.” Nathan took a gulp of his beer and turned to walk away.
“You’re not leaving yet, are you?”
“Bathroom.”
The girl smiled as Nathan headed through the bar to the bathroom. He checked to make sure the stalls were all empty. Then he called his handler.
Seventeen
“You cruel bastard. You’re a fucking natural.”
“Quick question,” Nathan said.
“Sure,” his handler said. “What do you need?”
“Where’s Mark Mahoney right now?”
“What?”
“Where is he? Right now. At this moment.”
A beat. “He’s . . . hold on . . . he’s at an Italian restaurant.”
“For how long?”
“About fifteen minutes. Just sitting down to his entrée.”
“Who’s he with?”
“Journalist from the Toronto office.”
“So his apartment’s empty?”
“Mahoney’s?”
Nathan sighed. “Yeah.”
“It’s empty. Hold on . . . I’m just gonna check the feed. Yeah, lamp on in the living room but all quiet. What do you have in mind, Stone?”
“I have an idea. A slight change of plan.”
“You want to elaborate?”
“We kill two birds with one stone. If you pardon the pun. We show the girl compromised and out of it but put her in Mahoney’s apartment. I think that will give us leverage over not only her father but also over Mahoney.”
“You want to take her there? You sick fuck,” the handler said. “And because we have cameras operating, you thought . . .”
“Precisely. Get her there, pretend it’s my place . . . and leave her there.”
“Shit. Hold on, I need to OK this.”
Nathan cleared his throat. “I need to go. Don’t call my cell phone. Get back to me ASAP.”
“Copy that.”
Nathan washed his hands and walked back through the bar toward the pretty girl, who was now pouring herself a glass of wine from the bottle. Nathan picked up his beer and took a sip. He glanced at his watch. “Better watch my time.”
“You’re not leaving now, are you?”
Nathan gave her a pained look. “Got a few things to do before my call with David. Need to leave in a few minutes.”
“Are you married?”
Nathan was surprised at the question. “No . . . I’m not married. Are you?”
The girl laughed hard. “Yeah, good one. Not something I’m aiming for. At least not now.”
“So what’s the plan for you? You gonna be a photographer?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Where do you want to study?”
The girl took out her cell phone and smiled at Nathan. “My dad wants me to go to law school. But I was hoping to get into the School of Visual Arts, in New York.”
“Nice school.”
“Where did you go?”
“Me? I didn’t go to college.”
Again the girl laughed hard. “Really?”
“Got a Leica as a present, and before you know it, I’m walking around the East Village taking pictures. Models. Actresses. Junkies. Homeless guys. Panhandler crazies. Hard-luck stories.”
“That’s amazing. Are you from New York?”
“Yeah, Lower East Side. It’s all different now.”
“Wow! I so want to go to New York.”
“Great town. You’ll like it.”
The girl’s glassy eyes stared at him as if she was lost in thought. “Sorry, I’m a bit fucked-up tonight, but you did say you’re speaking to the David Bailey in an hour, right? I didn’t know if I’d imagined that or not.”
Nathan looked at his watch. “Actually, forty-five minutes to be precise.”
His earpiece crackled into life. “Mahoney is out, we think for a couple of hours. He’s meeting a colleague for a drink after dinner.”
The girl smiled. “I’d love to hear more about you.”
The voice in the earpiece. “His apartment is free. The four-digit code for his door is still 0911. Good luck.”
The girl leaned in closer. “I said I’d love to get to know you better.”
Her raised voice snapped Nathan out of his thoughts. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
“I said I’d love to get to know you better.”
Nathan checked his watch again. “I’m heading back to my apartment to edit a couple of pictures before I take the call. So I really need to think about heading back. It was really nice to meet you.”
“John, I’m sure you’re really busy, but is there any way I can see how you work? Maybe even . . . I don’t know, say hi to David Bailey?”
Nathan put on a pained expression, as if it were a big ask. “I don’t know . . . Don’t get me wrong, I’m fine with it . . . It’s just that . . .”
“You’re married, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not married. But thanks for asking. Twice.”
“Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
“None of that, no.”
“So you’re unattached. How do you feel about me watching you doing some editing?”
Nathan smiled. “Sure. Why not? It’s just a couple of minutes away.”
The five-minute walk through downtown Toronto to Mahoney’s luxury apartment felt strange.
“Is this it?” the girl said when she caught sight of the huge tower.
“Short-term rental.”
Nathan punched 0911 into the security entrance pad and walked into the lobby with the gir
l. They rode the elevator to the top floor and walked down a corridor to the door of Mahoney’s apartment. Nathan again entered the four-digit code and the door clicked open. He pushed it and they went inside. He made sure to lock it.
The girl walked into the huge open-plan living room. “This is like, wow!”
“Yeah, it’s OK, I guess. Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Coke?”
“I’d love a beer.”
“Beer. I’ll see if I’ve got any left.”
Nathan went to the kitchen, all granite surfaces and tiled floor. He opened the refrigerator. Inside were half-a-dozen bottles of Red Stripe. Well done, Mahoney. Nice work. He opened two of them.
“This is so fucking cool,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s pretty nice.”
Nathan took out a packet of Rohypnol pills and crumbled three into her beer. They began to dissolve. Slowly. He stirred the sediment with a fork as it dissolved in the beer. Then he returned to the living room.
“So where’s all your photographs and shit?”
Nathan handed her the beer. “Red Stripe OK?”
“Love it.” She took a couple of large swigs from the bottle.
“I’ve got my stuff in a side room next door. But since I’m just here on a temporary assignment, most of my stuff is back in my main studio in the Village. In New York.”
The girl took another swig of beer and closed her eyes for a second. She began to move her head from side to side, as if stoned. “I so want to be a photographer. I love photographs. It’s such an amazing art form.”
Nathan could see she was already falling under the spell of the roofies. The drug was working its terrible magic. It was odorless and tasteless. Ten times stronger than Valium. And fast acting.
He checked his watch. It had been three minutes since her first gulp. It usually took ten minutes to render someone completely unconscious.
“Take a seat on the sofa and I’ll put some music on,” Nathan said.
The girl’s eyes opened for a few moments and began rolling around her head. She slumped down on the sofa. “I’m exhausted.” She slugged the beer until it was finished and rested the empty bottle on her lap.
Nathan bent down, took the bottle, and put it on the table.
His earpiece crackled into life. “Heads-up, bro. Mahoney just got a call from his editor in New York. He finished his after-dinner drinks early, and he’s headed back. The editor wants more information on the facility in Scotland.”
Nathan looked down at the room-freshener plug, which contained one of the hidden cameras.
“We estimate four minutes, maybe less. Ideally, perfectly, we can get her and him in the picture. Two birds with one stone.”
That had been Nathan’s idea from the outset. But this was way too rushed and unexpected.
“Better get yourself out of there quick.”
The girl moaned as she slipped into a drugged stupor.
Nathan waited a few moments until her eyes closed completely.
The voice in his earpiece: “This is taking too long, bro. You need to move fast!”
Nathan took some shots of her with his cell phone and sent them to the handler. Then he took a small bag of coke and sprinkled it on her T-shirt. He took some more pictures and sent them along.
Nathan got the beer bottle and put it on the sofa, as if it had dropped from her hand. He took some more photos and sent them to the handler. He got his bottle and placed it beside a cushion. She was totally out of it.
His earpiece hissed. “Shit! Mahoney is outside. He’s paying the cab. Get the fuck out of there!”
Nathan’s heart was beginning to race. He took one final look around and left the apartment, shutting the door behind him. He headed to the stairwell and walked slowly down the stairs.
“He’s in the elevator! He’s heading up!”
Nathan bounded down the stairs, reached the lobby, and headed out into the Toronto night as Mahoney exited the elevator upstairs.
Eighteen
A faint whiff of perfume and beer greeted Mark Mahoney as he opened the front door of his apartment. It usually smelled of beeswax. He flicked on the lights. The only person who had access was his cleaner, a woman who also cleaned the offices of the New York Times’s Toronto bureau.
He sensed something wasn’t right as he hung up his coat.
The smell of booze only got stronger.
Lying sprawled and ashen faced on the sofa was a young woman, white powder on her T-shirt. Two bottles of his beer lying next to her.
Mahoney felt his legs nearly give way. “What the fuck is this? Hey! Hey!”
He stood over the girl, heart pounding, wondering what the hell was going on. Who was she? And why was she here? Was it some kind of joke? Was he getting punked?
“Hey, what the fuck is this? Get the hell out of here before I call the cops!”
The girl lay motionless. He stared down at the white powder.
“I said get the fuck up! Who the fuck are you?”
The girl moaned, completely out of it.
Mahoney raised his voice. “I’m going to call the cops if you don’t get the hell out of here! What the hell are you doing here? Is this some sick fucking joke?”
The girl had slipped back into a deep sleep.
Mahoney began to pace the room, wondering if he was in the middle of a nightmare. He tried to make sense of it. How had she gotten in? Had he left his door unlocked? But no, he never did things like that. He was careful. Had his cleaner forgotten to lock up? She had been there in the late morning, and when he had returned, everything had been fine. So what had happened? Was this some druggie squatter?
Mahoney rubbed his face, trying to think. His cognitive abilities seemed to have deserted him. He wondered what exactly he should do. The most obvious choice was to call the cops. And say what? There’s a drunk girl covered in drugs lying in a stupor on my sofa, please arrest her. And by the way, I don’t know who the fuck she is. Who’d believe such a ridiculous story? Nobody, that’s who.
His cell phone rang and he tensed. Fuck.
Mahoney picked up the phone and checked the caller ID. It was his executive editor at the Times, Mort Weiss. Shit. He pressed the green button. “Mort . . .”
“Hey, Mark, we OK to talk? Really interested to hear exactly where we are.”
Mahoney looked down at the girl’s unconscious body and closed his eyes. “Bit of a problem just now, Mort, sorry.”
“Nothing serious I hope.”
Mahoney racked his brains to come up with a plausible lie. “Got a . . . It’s a bit of a nightmare. Got a . . . shit, a bad leak.”
“That’s not good.”
“Water is pouring out of the bathroom. Don’t know what happened. Just got back.”
“No problem. You deal with that. We’ll talk tomorrow, same time. How does that sound?”
“Thanks, Mort. Much appreciated.”
Mahoney ended the call, his heart racing. It felt as if he was in the middle of a bad dream. Then it occurred to him: What if she’d slipped into a drug-induced coma?
“Shit, shit, shit!”
Mahoney kneeled beside the girl and tried to take her pulse. He pressed his finger against her skin. He started the stopwatch on his cell phone, but he couldn’t detect anything. No pulse. “Oh shit, no!” he exclaimed. He kept his fingers on her wrist. Suddenly, he felt a beat. Very faint. And then another. She was alive. Thank fuck. He waited a full minute. He counted twenty-five beats. It was really weak. Shit.
He didn’t have any choice. He had to call it in.
He called 911. He closed his eyes.
“Emergency, how can I help?”
“I think there might’ve been a drug overdose in my apartment, a young woman.” Mahoney gave the address.
“Is this woman a friend of yours, sir?” the operator asked.
“No, she isn’t. I came back to my apartment, she’s lying there drunk, covered in fucking drugs. Can you please send the paramedics?”
“They’re on their way, sir, as we speak.”
“How long?”
“ETA two minutes.”
“Please hurry!”
Mahoney ended the call and began to pace the apartment. He didn’t know this girl. The poor kid was just there, lying on his goddamn sofa. Dear God, it looked shocking. Terrible. Oh Christ, he was going to take the rap for this. And what if she died?
The seconds dragged into minutes.
Eventually, he heard the sound of banging on his apartment door and opened up.
“Where is she?” the paramedic snapped.
“Living room. Please save her.”
“What did she take?”
“I have no idea. There’s a white powder on her. I just found her lying there.”
The paramedics went to work on her. “Very weak pulse,” said one.
Mahoney was pacing the room. “Please . . . you have to save her.”
“What did she take?”
“I don’t know. I just came home and there she was.” His story sounded ridiculous, even to him.
“Sir, please, you need to help us!”
Mahoney threw his hands up. “I swear I don’t know her. No idea.”
“It looks like traces of cocaine on her body. Are you sure?”
“This has absolutely nothing to do with me.”
The paramedic shook his head as if he didn’t believe a word Mahoney was saying.
A few more paramedics arrived, strapped the girl onto a gurney, and wheeled her out into the elevator.
Mahoney watched in horror. He knew it wouldn’t end there. And it didn’t. A few minutes later, the cops turned up. His heart sank.
“You need to come with us, sir,” one said.
They arrested him and took him in for questioning.
Mahoney felt like he’d entered a parallel universe as he was hustled to the cop car waiting outside.
“If she dies,” one of the cops said, “you’re in real trouble, my friend. You’re a journalist, right?”
Mahoney could only nod. No words came out.
“I don’t think your friends at the New York Times are gonna be able to help you, are they? They’ll put as much distance between them and you as possible. But I guess you know that already.”
Mahoney felt sick; he’d never felt so alone.