Stephanie relishes the look on John’s face, a mix of admiration, shock, and repulsion, all fueling unasked questions. “Come on in,” she says. “It’s fucking wet out here.” She swings the door open and strides in with confidence.
Acting like you belong somewhere is half the battle.
The lobby features a massive circular marble table. An equally massive crystal chandelier is centered above it; the faceted pendants send prisms of rainbow dancing around the room. A vase brimming with exotic tropical flowers sits on the table’s heart. Stephanie’s sure they’re fake; the colors are too improbably vibrant to be real. She plucks away a waxy green leaf. Is surprised to find it oozes sap on her fingers.
There’s a single elevator directly ahead of them and a gracious marble stairway to their right. The lobby’s deserted, the only sound the steady drum of the relentless rain outside. Stephanie beelines for the elevator.
Alexander Blake’s apartment door proves to be just as easy for Stephanie to pick as his front door. This time, she’s cocky enough to give John a happy little wink just before the bolt turns. As the door opens, a security system beeps ominously. Stephanie heads for the keypad located to the right of the entrance. Punches in a series of numbers. The beeping ceases. Stephanie ushers John inside and closes the apartment’s front door softly after him.
They listen intently, poised for fight or flight. But if anyone’s home they remain undisturbed by the intrusive alarm. Or quietly hiding. Stephanie takes a step deeper into the apartment.
“Do I even want to ask where you learned to pick locks like that?” Jake inquires, trailing behind her.
“I don’t know, do you? Does it matter? I got us in, so let’s look around.”
“And the keypad?”
She shrugs. “As soon as we got a name back at Gracey’s, I did a little digging. It’s remarkable what you can find online if you’re even a little bit clever. I hacked into Blake’s computer. Stupid sap has a folder marked ‘PASSWORDS’ on his laptop.”
She turns her attention to examining the vestibule of the apartment. The boss has taught her how important careful observation can be. Observation without judgment even more so, although way harder to achieve, all of our preconceptions insistent on obscuring what is often right in front of us.
A boldly patterned area rug covers most of the hardwood floor. A console table to their left holds a bowl of keys, a stack of mail, and a browning, half-eaten apple atop a square of paper towel. Next to the table is an umbrella stand containing a large, well-made, classic black number and a bright green child’s umbrella with bulging froggy eyes. Underneath the table sit a pair of men’s sneakers and a pair of child’s rubber rain boots, the same emerald green as the frog umbrella.
The entryway opens up into an enormous sitting room, one that screams money. Stephanie’s beginning to get an eye. Not so much for fashion, there she likes what she likes. But for architecture and design. She can recognize quality now. Hungers for it. She casts greedy eyes over the possessions of Alexander Blake.
A finely knotted silk rug on the floor. Deep chocolate brown suede couches. Armchairs upholstered in coordinating fabrics and accented with plump contrasting pillows. Enameled vases filled with fresh flowers. Antique Asian chests and tables with intricate detail. A serious-looking oil painting of a landscape hangs prominently. There’s also more evidence of a child: a heap of dress-up clothes in a basket, topped off with a fireman’s hat, picture books housed in a small set of shelves, a half-constructed Lego spaceship on the coffee table.
A pair of French windows lead out to a terrace and she follows their call despite the rain.
The view is both beautiful and weird: The rake of the mountainside provides a sharp angle down to the misty gray city below. The shiny neighboring towers loom overhead, giants dwarfing the smaller building. Rain beats down in a steady stream. Stephanie shuts the door firmly.
Further investigation reveals three bedrooms. One’s kitted out in a masculine style. A substantial bed, heavy furniture in dark wood. A second tidy, Star Wars–themed room is obviously designed for a little boy. A third bedroom appears to be used as an office, although a stack of bright plastic bins full of toys has invaded the space.
A quick glance reveals the kitchen is huge by Hong Kong standards, efficiently designed with late model appliances. There are two full bathrooms and one guest powder room, all recently remodeled. The place is empty.
“I’d say he was here not too long ago. And left in a hurry.”
“Why’s that?”
John ticks each contributing clue off his fingers. “One, the apple in the front hall. Browning, but not rotten. Two, the Lego project in the living room. Did you notice? Every other toy or book is picked up and in its proper place. It’s all a little OCD for me, but whatever. Three, the umbrellas and rain boots. Why would you go out on a day like today without them unless you were getting out in a hurry?”
Stephanie glances at him with surprise. Maybe he’s smarter than he looks; these are reasonable assumptions. Nonetheless she retorts, “I’m not sure the umbrellas and boots prove anything. Maybe they own more than one set each. And what if the kid’s allowed to have one project out at a time? You don’t know anything about this guy. Maybe he’s strict. If I learned anything from the boss, it’s not to jump to conclusions.”
His face tightens. He turns away. It’s not that she thinks she’s wrong; she knows she’s not. It’s just that she also knows that the harsh way in which she delivered her reply scalded more than she intended. Fuck. Why do I always feel so rough?
“I’m going to take a look in the office,” she says, eager to be away from her partner for even a few moments.
Stephanie brushes past John and settles in front of Alexander Blake’s computer. Her fingers fly across the keyboard and she settles comfortably into his cushy desk chair. You can tell it costs just by sitting in it.
She quickly pieces together a portrait of Blake, accessing his bank and credit card statements, email accounts, phone records, and other files. He works at the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre as a lighting tech. She suspects there’s family money too, though, given this apartment and the man’s fat bank balances. His son, Ian, likely the apartment’s other occupant, is four years old. Blake shares custody with the boy’s mother, a woman named Kristen Chen.
She’s about to do a deep dive into Blake and Kristen’s relationship when she senses a presence behind her. Stephanie swivels in the luxe desk chair and turns a smile on for John, hoping to soften things between them. Her smile fades when she sees his pale face. “What is it? What did you find?”
“It’s Eva Lombard’s. It matches the description her husband gave us. It was in the kitchen sink.”
He holds out a rose pink scarf, streaked with rusty red. “And I’m pretty sure this is blood.”
Stephanie’s pretty sure he’s right.
TRACKS
Jake Burrows, aka John Bernake,
Hong Kong Island
The bloody scarf belonging to Eva rendered Stevie uncharacteristically quiet. She’d agreed with Jake that their next logical step was approaching the other people the missing woman knew in Hong Kong. They’d gone to the Haases’ apartment first simply because it was closest.
Now that they’re there, she remains mute. Jake’s tempted to give a little shit back to her, “What’s the matter, afraid of a little blood?” He restrains himself, both mildly concerned by her shift in demeanor and grateful for relief from her never-ending carping. Also, he’s got his own reactions to blood; finding that scarf hit him sideways too. If he pokes the bear there’s no guarantee she won’t poke back.
The rain’s abated at least. Jake assesses the mirror-glass clad tower rising above them, reflecting heavy banks of clouds and a first sweet sliver of sunshine. He’s never seen a city like this. Even after years of living in Manhattan, he’s d
azzled and overwhelmed. Every structure ridiculously tall, gleaming and modern, cut into an island that’s itself all sharp rises and angles, banked by green only where the sheer pitch of the mountainous terrain renders construction impossible.
He tells Stevie to wait outside. For once she doesn’t protest or challenge. He hopes to hell she gets her shit together fast, whatever it is that’s going on.
What if Eva’s here? What if she’s hurt? What if she’s not? Then what? He needs a partner he can rely on no matter the circumstances. He checks his phone again. Still nothing from Catherine since he sent an SOS about the discovery of the blood-streaked scarf in Alexander Blake’s deserted apartment.
Jake springs into action when he sees a woman with a baby carriage struggling to open the front door of the Haases’ building. He greets her with a smile and a friendly word, holding the door and helping lift the pram over the lip of the doorway.
Once again, Jake marvels at just how right Catherine sometimes is. Sometimes, if not always. But it is true that with the right clothes and attitude, Jake can enter places of wealth and privilege without a second glance. And not just enter, blend into, access and information just handed over to him. Within moments he’s learned the baby’s name is Devin, the mother’s, Pam. Of course she knows the Haases. She and her husband, Charlie, are great friends with the couple. But Daniel’s in Germany. And Heather won’t be home now. She’ll be at the club. For little Kelby’s ice-skating lesson.
It doesn’t take much longer for Jake to learn that the Haas club of choice is the Aberdeen Marina Club. At least that’s a stroke of luck; Catherine’s cover took care to put him on the rolls there.
He tells Stevie they are headed for the club. They may not find Eva there, he’s painfully aware of that, but he needs a trail of any kind.
Once they are settled in yet another taxi, Jake decides he has to say something. “You all right?”
“Fine.”
“Okay. It’s just that you finally stopped giving me shit, so I figured you must be in a bad way.”
A hint of a smile flickers across Stevie’s face. She punches him in the arm. Hard.
“Ow! What the hell?”
“Thanks for caring.” She gives him a dazzling grin, good humor seemingly restored. “Sorry about that. I’m back.”
Jake rubs a hand over the sore spot where she punched him. “Yeah, I fucking hope so. And don’t hit me again.”
“You need to toughen up.”
“And don’t start telling me what to do again! Listen to me. You have your way of getting into things and I have mine. Take my lead at this next place.”
The Aberdeen Marina Club lives up to its name, circling as it does a harbor dotted with sleek and sexy watercraft: sailboats, powerboats, a small armada of kayaks, a stand of Jet Skis. The uncertain weather has left the dock full, ropes lashed and tarps secure.
The multistory building housing the club is designed around the view, with banks of glass windows facing out to the water. The glare prevents any view inside no matter how fiercely Jake squints.
He cautions Stevie one last time. “Just keep your mouth shut. Follow along and don’t interfere.”
She does as she’s told as they enter reception and are directed to a concierge for “new member” counseling. She’s a polished stone of a girl in a vaguely nautical uniform. After Jake provides his (fake) ID and introduces Stevie as his visiting sister, the concierge takes them through a map of the facility, and a briefing of its amenities (gym; spa; several restaurants; tennis courts; two swimming pools; a baseball team; several spaces dedicated to kids, from a nursery for babies to a “chill” space for teens; a bowling alley; and, yes, an ice-skating rink).
The alabaster girl smoothly glides from describing the club’s delights to a review of the club’s strict membership policy and code of conduct. Jake hears Stevie’s snort and gives her a light kick on the ankle. She scowls at him and he flashes her a broad grin in return.
The concierge offers to arrange a tour, but Jake demurs, claiming a pressured schedule. He tells the woman they’ll just take a quick peek around and return on a day when he is better able to give a tour the proper attention.
The dry chill of the ice-skating rink makes him shiver in his damp clothes. Jake takes in the unruly row of five small children on the ice, stumbling and shrieking in front of a cheerful instructor imploring the kids to bend their knees. He scans the bleachers and identifies Heather Haas, an exhausted-looking woman with two toddlers in matching pink squirming on her lap.
“Just hang back,” he whispers to Stevie, as they thread their way through the stands. The rink is brightly lit, sharp, clean white and royal blue. The ice looks freshly groomed.
“Heather?” he jovially addresses their Target. “How good to see you again! John Bernake. We met at a party at Pam and Charlie’s.”
It’s fascinating to watch Heather Haas’s exhausted face struggle to place him. The war between confusion and societal politesse plays out until she can compose her features in a tentative smile. Jake knows it’s partly the setting that buys him this allowance. Merely being in this club “places” Jake for Heather.
He takes a seat without asking and admires Heather’s twin girls. He makes faces at them until both toddlers are giggling. Stevie settles in several rows behind them.
Jake asks Heather to point out Kelby on the ice. She softens even further with Jake’s familiar use of her son’s name and gestures to a boy with a determined set to his jaw pushing his way across the rink. Jake capitalizes on her obvious pride, commenting about the boy’s skill with admiration. He turns the conversation to the expat experience, the particular nature of friendships formed among strangers in a strange land. Pam and Charlie for example, such good people.
Heather follows him down this path. “Yes, these friendships are really like no other. If it wasn’t for people like Pam, I would have lost my mind with three kids under the age of six. It does bond people, doesn’t it? Having to adapt to living in a place you may have never even visited before?”
Jake leans in and speaks softly. “And you’ve heard, of course, that an American woman’s gone missing? Awful.”
All color drains from Heather’s face. “I knew her,” she whispers. Corrects herself, “Know her. I just mean I knew her when she lived here.”
Jake’s about to press further when he’s startled to see the concierge striding toward them with a look that could only be described as furious. He glances behind him. Stevie is gone.
“I’m so sorry if I upset you.” Jake extends a hand for Heather to shake as he rises. “I’m sure I’ll see you around again, but I’ve got to be going now.”
Heather looks startled but nods accommodatingly. “Of course. So nice to see you.”
Jake offers each little girl a high five and ambles away from Heather and toward the concierge. She heads him off at the top of the aisle. “Mr. Bernake,” she says in a tone as cold as the ice on the rink. “Security found your sister on an office computer trying to break into our membership files. I’m afraid we’re going to have to escort you both from the club immediately.”
PINCH
Stephanie Regaldo, aka Stevie Nichols,
Hong Kong Island
The pinch of the guards’ hands on her biceps is all too familiar. Stephanie concentrates on relaxing her body even though every muscle screams to twist and punch her way out of this. It’s only the realization that John’s steady stream of bullshit actually seems to be cooling the fury of the concierge that keeps her still.
She has to admit to some admiration. He’s a walking lesson in what Catherine touts as the importance of acting “as if.” He blends a combination of embarrassed outrage at his “wild sister,” and a hushed whisper about “her problems,” with a promise that she’ll never darken the door of the club again, and somehow gets them cordially escorted to the fron
t door with his own membership privileges intact.
Stephanie rubs her arms where the guards had gripped her. She chances a look at John’s face. His mouth is set in a grim line. He strikes out down the street without a backward glance.
Shit. Stevie runs after him. “Look, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to the restaurant Eva Lombard’s friend Yuan Dai owns. You can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.”
“Hear me out….”
John whirls around to confront her. “Are you kidding me? Why should I? Didn’t I tell you to hang back? I was just getting somewhere with Heather Haas!”
“Hey, I said I was sorry. And I have to give you credit; you handled that stone-cold bitch concierge with some real chops.”
He tugs his hair in a gesture of frustration that’s becoming familiar to Stephanie, then keeps on walking.
“That story about your ‘troubled sister’ came pretty easy.” Stephanie trails after him. “Close to home?”
Bull’s-eye. John stops again and turns. “I’ve had it with you. We can’t work together.” But despite the force of his words she can see she’s touched a nerve. There’s raw pain in his eyes.
“The blood on the scarf,” Stephanie persists in a low voice. “My father and brother were murdered while I was away for the summer. I was sixteen and visiting my mother. I came home and found the bodies. But the first thing I came across was my brother’s bloody T-shirt in the front hallway. The bodies were next. They had been there, in our house, for three days before I arrived.”
She raises her eyes to meet his, her own raw pain exposed. “Seeing that scarf, I don’t know, it got under my skin. I’m sorry.”
“My parents were both murdered,” John replies tersely, without adding any details. Stephanie takes this as a peace offering.
They stand there silently for a moment; then, gently, she touches his arm. “To the restaurant then?”
The Empty Bed Page 16