“You seem surprised,” Dani says as she squeezes the Chevelle into a spot a few blocks down and around a corner. “Do you know this place?”
“I guess not,” I say.
“If I bring you to him, he will suspect me,” Dani says. “I will be useless to you if my loyalty is compromised.”
“I know,” I say. “Which is why you’re staying here.”
“But how will you get in?”
“This time,” I say, unzipping the coveralls and working them off, “I’ll walk through the front door.” My school uniform is beyond wrinkled, but I’m not trying to be anybody other than myself, so I don’t really care.
“Tread carefully, milaya,” she says. “He has weaknesses, but mercy isn’t one of them. If you injure his pride, he will kill you.”
Peachy. “Thanks for the tip,” I say. She seems to be strangling the steering wheel, so I put my hand on one of hers. “I won’t give him any reason to hurt me,” I say earnestly.
She nods and exhales. I get out of the car and shut the door behind me before she can change her mind.
When I walk in, the foyer is exactly as I remember it. The staff hasn’t even changed the flowers. I send a silent thank-you to my dad, wherever he is, that I’ve already had the opportunity to case the building. If I need to get away, I’ll have an easier time, having escaped once before.
A suited man appears like magic from a side room. “Ms. Dupree, if you’ll follow me?”
“Neat trick,” I say. “How’d you know who I am?”
“We keep an eye out for visitors,” he says, indicating a security camera hanging from the ceiling. “And you’ve been on our radar for some time.”
I fall into step behind him. He leads me up the marble stairs where I met Mrs. Stratton yesterday, and then down a corridor on the second floor to a door at the end of the hall. He opens the door for me, and I pass him with polite thanks into a conference room with floor-to-ceiling views of the darkening city.
Seven men in business attire sit around the conference table in the middle of the room. They must be in the middle of some kind of meeting. Probably about me. The thought makes me smile. I don’t see anyone I recognize, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t city bigwigs. I’ll certainly recognize them now if I ever see their faces again. Which doesn’t bode well for me, actually. They wouldn’t want to be publicly associated with Petrov. So why are they letting me see them?
I pick out Petrov almost immediately. He’s the only one in the room who actually looks like a predator.
“May I offer you a seat, my dear?” he asks, indicating one of several empty chairs. His English is accented but smoother than Dani’s.
His double-breasted Armani with pinstripes suggests a man who lets others dictate his taste. But I’d be an idiot to underestimate him. He may be shortish, slender, and the wrong side of forty, but he’s all gristle and bone and pointed black goatee. A career villain. He makes Mike and Dani and me look like altar boys.
“I see you’ve found me out. How clever of you,” he says, steepling his hands. There’s a gold ring on his right hand, a snake wrapped around his finger and biting its own tail. It’s old gold, matte like brushed nickel instead of shiny like chrome. I expected him to be more of a shiny-gold kind of guy.
“Let’s skip the posturing, shall we?” I say, putting my offense on the field. “I know what you’re doing, you know what I’m doing. Nothing here is a secret.” I include the silent members of our party in my glare.
“Very well,” Petrov says, clearly humoring me. “What did you have in mind?”
“I have no interest in anything but keeping myself and my friends alive,” I say. “I think my dad acted unwisely going up against you. I am not him.”
He nods, indicating that I can continue.
“I’m sure by now you’ve figured out that he had something on you, and that I might be able to find it.”
“I had heard something like that, yes.”
One of the men, sweaty and looking green around the gills, opens his mouth to speak, but is summarily silenced by a glare from Petrov.
“I’ll give it to you as soon as I find it. No cops. But you have to back off and let me find it. All this trying-to-kill-me stuff is distracting.”
Petrov laughs. “You amuse me, Ms. Dupree,” he says. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling rather magnanimous this evening.”
“You need the evidence destroyed before anyone else stumbles across it, and you need me to find it, if you want to have it fast.”
His smile sours a little. Stick successfully applied; now it’s time for the carrot.
“Consider me sufficiently motivated to find it. Spare your foot soldiers some trouble. It’ll go faster if you let me do my job.”
“Fair enough,” he says, though he’s looking less magnanimous around the edges. “But I’m sure you can understand that I have difficulty trusting you, considering the circumstances. If I don’t properly ‘motivate’ you, how am I to know you won’t go running to the authorities once you find it?”
“I’d give you my word, but I’m a grifter, so clearly that doesn’t count for much. But then, I’m a grifter—I have a lot to hide myself. The last thing I want is to draw unwanted attention.”
“Your father used much the same argument when I hired him.”
Crap. Of course he did.
“It’s not only the attention,” I say. “It’s my friends. You almost killed Mike with that Molotov. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”
“I hope you’ll excuse my skepticism, but these are not sentiments typical of a grifter.” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “I have yet to meet a con artist who thought more of others than of himself.”
“I am also thinking of myself,” I say. “I don’t want to die. I want to get out. Out of Chicago, out of the game. I want a normal life.” I’m kind of surprised that I’m confessing this to him. But he’ll hear the sincerity in my voice. Just like the dean.
He considers this for several moments while the men around us sit stoically, waiting for Petrov to make his decision.
“All right,” he says. “You have one week.”
My initial relief at this pronouncement is usurped by the anxiety of a ticking clock. “I can’t guarantee I can find it by then.”
“One week,” he repeats. Then he presses the call button on the conference phone in front of him. “Marcus, please escort our guest out.”
The suit who led me here opens the door and comes to stand behind my chair.
“One week or what?” I ask.
Petrov smiles at me, and it chills me to my core. “One week.”
Dani is leaning against the passenger’s-side door of the Chevelle. When she sees me, she straightens at once, looking relieved. She opens the door and I slide in.
“What now?” she asks as she starts the car.
“I bought us a week.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s more than we had yesterday,” I say, leaning against the door. I could sleep for that entire week.
“What will you do next?”
I sigh and my breath mists the window. “Get Murphy’s van. Go home.”
“Is that wise?” she asks.
“It is now that I’ve negotiated a truce. And anyway, I need to dig through my dad’s stuff.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence. I tell myself it’s because Dani is not a talker, but I suspect she’s actually trying to give me some space to rest. I hate being this vulnerable in front of her, but I’m so tired. She has to shake me awake when we get back to the warehouse. It can’t be later than five o’clock, and I feel like I’ve already lived five lifetimes.
I pick up the coveralls and fish out Murphy’s keys. I trade the Chevelle for Murphy’s van and shove the key in the ignition. Dani appears at my window and knocks on the glass with my glasses. I slide down the window.
“How do I get ahold of you if I need you?” I ask, taking the glasses.
“
When you need me, I will know,” she says, shrugging against the wind and heading back to the warehouse.
When I get home, I toss Murphy’s keys on the counter. Sadly, no magic cleaning gnomes came in while I was gone.
I put a few of our pictures back on the wall, looking behind them for my father’s neat script. I go through all the cupboards in the kitchen, remembering my first frantic search for clues. I didn’t find anything then but the envelope at the bottom of the trash.
I give up on the kitchen and move to my room. But nothing seems new or unusual.
I push into my dad’s room, ignoring for the moment the memories that assault me. I have too much at stake now, too many people depending on me.
I riffle through his papers and sift through his closet, searching behind my mom’s trunk for hollow places, secret doors. I pile his clothes in the corner, shaking them out for any loose clues. Finally, I gather the framed snapshots of us on various outings that are littered all over the floor and set them back on his dresser.
The third picture catches my eye, because it’s of me and him standing in front of an airplane grounded on a concrete pad in a park not far from here. Meigs Field.
“People don’t generally believe themselves to be evil. Just strong,” I remember him saying. “And they think that the world owes them something.”
My dad leads me through the trees, pointing out the abandoned hangar from when Meigs Field was a real airport. He tells me the story of an old governor tearing up the runway in the middle of the night to head off a stalemate with the populace.
“Power is like the fish that swallows Geppetto. People become trapped by it. They’re afraid that without it, they’ll drown in the sea of mediocrity with the rest of us.”
“Do you want power?”
“Nah, I’ve got my salvation right here,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.
I snap back to the present, clutching the photo and the memory. I need to calm down. I need to think. I need a copy of Pinocchio.
I scramble for my laptop. I key in “Pinocchio text” and get a page of hits. The first few are ebooks. I skip those and go directly to the full text. Clicking the link, I type “dogfish” in the search field and hit Enter.
Can you guess who that monster was? It was no other than the huge Dogfish.…
I pick up my phone. I need to check on Mike, alert Tyler, bring Sam up to speed, circle the wagons. But before I can do all that, there’s a vital call I need to make.
“Hello, Heather? I know where we’re going to have the dance.”
THE PINCH
It turns out that finding a costume for a dance with a theme as wacky as “Swing in Space” is as simple as digging through my mom’s trunk again. The empire-waist, spaghetti-strap dress I liberate from the dark recesses of painful-memory storage is just free-flowing enough to let me paw through overhead bins and under landing gear with equal impunity.
That’s right. Landing gear. Because if I’ve deciphered my dad’s clue correctly, the next stop on this crazy train is Meigs Field—home to grounded metal birds and busted campaign promises. And what better way to search the as yet undedicated shiny new airplane hangar than by camouflaging my snooping with balloons and streamers and hormone-addled adolescents?
I can’t take much credit for getting the dance relocated, though. After looping in Heather and Murphy, I asked Tyler for his dad’s help with the city. The rest pretty much happened by itself, and in the space of four days, no less. I can’t help but be impressed. And relieved. I only have three more days to get to the end of my dad’s trail of clues.
I’m adding one final layer of hair glue to the liberty-spike bun I spent an hour molding into place as my concession to the space-age aspect of the theme, when someone knocks on my apartment door.
I open it to see Tyler in his own 1920s-meets-Jetsons outfit—a tailored zoot suit, pinstriped fedora, and rocket ship–print suspenders peeking out from beneath his jacket. He looks like Abercrombie’s attempt at a John Dillinger photo shoot.
“Hey,” I say, smiling.
“I—You look—” He seems lost for words.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling strangely shy. “You too.”
He hands me a pale pink chrysanthemum corsage I didn’t notice he was holding. I can’t account for the weird glowy feeling I get looking at it. I slip it on my wrist and bring it up to my nose before noticing how completely cliché I’m acting.
“Let’s get going. Can’t have the decorating committee finding the clue before we do,” I say as I step out into the hall and shut the door.
“Don’t you need a coat?”
I hold up the gold scarf I’m using as a wrap. “I thought I’d give freezing to death a try. Cut out the middle man.”
“That’s not really funny,” Tyler says, offering me his arm like a gentleman.
We start down the grubby apartment stairs, me carefully holding my skirt out of the dust and grime.
“It’s kind of funny,” I say.
Once we’re in the car and driving toward the dance, he moves his hand from the gearshift to mine, threading our fingers together.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, though I suppose that’s more lie than truth. I haven’t slept much since I discovered the captives in the warehouse. I keep seeing my dad being tossed into the canal, keep hearing the whoosh of fire and the tinkling of broken glass, the Ukrainian murmurs of cold comfort. I keep wondering if there’s some way I can fix it all faster, better.
“Requests for IDs are still coming in thick and fast,” I add, since fine by itself is generally a conversation killer, and I don’t want him thinking I don’t appreciate his asking.
“Need more help tonight?”
My stomach flutters and I roll my eyes at myself. It’s not as if Tyler didn’t come over the last four nights to help me with the orders I already have. Going to a dance together doesn’t mean that anything beyond laminating is going to be happening tonight.
I answer in the affirmative anyway, for all the obvious reasons. Not that I have time for making IDs or any other extracurricular activities. Petrov’s clock is ticking, and my time is running out.
We pull into the gravel lot serving as the temporary parking area for the airplane hangar, and I have to hand it to the Friends of Meigs Field—they lobbied hard to get their airport back from the powers that be. The sleek, state-of-the-art facility is a testament to the influence little people can have if they never give up. Too bad I have to break in and rip the place apart to find the next clue.
We’re here early to help with the setup so I can get my hands on the clue as soon as possible. The doors are wide open, letting in the last glow of the dying autumn sun.
“Any idea what we’re looking for?” Tyler asks as we dodge one of Heather’s minions clacking by, swathed in layers of cream chiffon and blue crepe paper.
“Sadly, no.”
“How about a place to start?”
I shake my head. “I’ll have to see what I see once we get in there. I’m hoping it will be obvious.”
It’s strange how naturally Tyler seems to be falling into the slot Sam usually fills. Sam has been avoiding me lately, and I’m not sure why. I try to tell myself that he’s just dating someone new. But I don’t really know that for sure. He didn’t outright confirm my guess that day at the Strand. And even if he is dating someone, why keep it a secret? We always tell each other everything. Besides, I’ll find out tonight, anyway. He has to bring her to the dance, right?
“Julep!”
As if my thinking about him has somehow teleported him here, Sam hurries to catch up to us, Haley Jacobs on his arm. Haley’s dress is a modern ode to the flapper dress, short enough to reveal almost as much thigh as calf, and her swoopy Gaga heels are a marvel of modern physics. Even so, she only comes up to Sam’s chin. And she’s obviously freezing her assets off.
“Found anything yet?”
“We just got here,” I say, catching Sam’s e
ye and throwing a pointed look at Haley. She’d better not know anything. I can’t afford another loose end right now.
“Can we get inside?” Haley asks, hugging herself and tip-tapping to the door without us.
“That’s who you’ve been mooning over?” I say under my breath to Sam.
Sam gives me a look like I’m the village idiot.
“What?”
Tyler heads to the entrance with me in tow and Sam trailing behind. We pass an odd couple of gabby socialite and sulky pocket protector setting up the ticket table just inside the door. Heather’s army of sophisticates-in-training are stringing fishing-wire sparkle stars from plane wings, clusters of balloons from propellers, Christmas lights along the walls, and giant papier-mâché planetoids from the rafters. Meanwhile, Murphy’s crew is stringing cables of a different sort, setting the stage for the jazz-punk band Heather procured to fit the theme.
Once we’re inside, Heather wastes no time putting us to work. She assigns Tyler and Sam to the crew assembling tables and chairs. She sends Haley to the photo booth. Then she turns to me with a smirk.
“Why don’t you put some of that hot air to good use?” she says, handing me a balloon.
“You do realize you owe me,” I say, but I take the balloon anyway.
“Not as much as Murphy does.”
I follow her gaze to where Bryn is loitering at the stage, waiting for Murphy to finish testing the sound system. She sparkles in her sequined sheath, a peacock-feathered headband around her pin curls. She also looks bemused, as if she still can’t quite believe what she’s doing. But then, we didn’t give her much choice. We went all in with the proposal: her name spelled in LED candles and twinkle lights in the quad between classes, Murphy holding more of the purple-tipped white roses he’d planted in her locker. We flattered her pride while undercutting every other option for a date. She had to say yes.
After blowing up three balloons, I abandon the decorating committee and start snooping. The first cabinet I come to is locked, so I take out one of my hairpins and the clip from a pen I stashed in my bra for this exact purpose. Grifter tip number 587: professional lock-picking tools are good for practice but are a dead giveaway if you get caught.
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