“Don’t talk about your mother that way.”
“Why do you care? You haven’t seen her in almost twenty years.”
“That doesn’t matter. You’re supposed to respect your elders.”
“Neither of you deserve any respect.”
“Madison, stop it. I’m sorry I hurt you. It’s my fault, not your mother’s. She did the best she could.”
“Maybe you should get back with her then. Now that Number Four is out of the picture.”
“We can talk about all of this later. Just give me the address.”
“Fine, but you’re not going to believe it.” She gives me the address. She’s right, I don’t believe it. The address she gives me isn’t even in the city; it’s in an upscale suburb, the kind of place where the houses start at half a million dollars. Why would someone who associates with a sleaze like Vollmer live out there? Of course that might explain why we haven’t caught up to her yet. The police aren’t looking that hard out in the suburbs, especially not in Westdale. The tricky son of a bitch.
I have to change trains three times to get one that goes out to Westdale. Once I get off at the station, there’s a two-mile walk to find the house. I keep my hands in my pockets and hope no cops stop by. They won’t fall for that ID story I gave the prison guard. If they even get that far; they’ll probably try to beat me into submission as soon as they see the gun.
As I get within eyeshot of the house, I see Madison leaning against a tree. For some reason she has a 35mm camera around her neck, the kind that predates digital cameras. She probably got it from Clarita’s closet. Once she sees me, she lifts the camera and points at me. “Say cheese,” she says. She squeezes off a shot.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m doing a story for the District Discourse,” she says. “It’s a photo essay on some of the area’s greatest homes.”
I have to admit that’s a pretty decent idea. It’ll give her an excuse not only to hang around the neighborhood, but also to go up to Little’s house. If it is Little’s house. “I’m surprised Grace let you come here.”
“Grace doesn’t run my life. Not anymore.”
“Madison—”
“Don’t start with me. Look, I got the whole bio on Suzanne Little. You want to read it? Pretty interesting stuff.”
She hands a manila folder to me. It is pretty interesting stuff. Suzanne Little is a forty-two-year-old woman, though the picture in the file must have been taken about fifteen years ago. She’s a striking blond who could probably be a model. At this point she could pass as Vollmer’s older sister.
Little is the former stepdaughter of Dr. Michael Lennox, the founder of the company. She was ten when her mother married Dr. Lennox and seventeen when they got divorced, not before her mom got a sizable chunk of money. Six years later, Mom died and the entire fortune went to Suzanne. By all accounts Suzanne has lived quietly; she shows up at a few charity galas and society parties every year. Nothing to indicate she might be an accomplice to the city’s version of Jack the Ripper.
“I guess that explains how he found out about the FY-1978,” I say. “The Worm told him about me and the robbery and he went to his girlfriend, who had someone look through Palmer’s files.”
“Explains how he got in there too,” Maddy says. “She probably had someone make a key for him to use.”
I hand the folder back to Maddy. “Let’s go have a chat with her then.”
Like at the prison I let Maddy take charge of things. The house is the biggest on the block, a mansion worth a couple of million at least. It’s got columns in the front, a Greek revival thing like the White House. Pretty ostentatious.
There’s no one out in the yard, no cars visible either. We might have come at the wrong time. Just as well; it’ll give me a chance to get Maddy out of here. Then I can come back alone later.
She pushes a button on the gate for the intercom. A husky woman’s voice says, “Who is it?”
“My name is Meredith Giddings. I work for the District Discourse. We’re doing a photo essay on some of the greatest homes in the metropolitan area and I’d like to talk to Ms. Little and take a few pictures. If she doesn’t mind.”
“I’ll have to check. Hold on.” We wait at the gate for at least ten minutes. I start to wonder if she’s figured out who we are and is sneaking Vollmer out the back way. Finally the same woman’s voice comes back to say, “She’ll talk to you. Come up to the house.”
The gates open by themselves. It’s a long walk up the paved driveway to the front door of the house. I let Maddy take the lead again. “So what’s my story?” I ask.
She takes the camera off and hands it to me. “You’re my photographer. I’m the reporter. We’re working on this together.”
“There’s a novel concept. I don’t look much like a photographer.”
“What’s she going to care? She’s a rich bitch; she doesn’t think about how news photographers dress.”
“Let’s hope so.”
I have to admit Maddy has a pretty good grasp of undercover work so far. She doesn’t show any fear or hesitation, plus she’s quick on her feet and a lot more comfortable with lying than I would have thought. She didn’t get that from me; I was always lousy at undercover work. That must come from her mother; Debbie was an actress in high school, before we started to date.
I expect a uniformed maid or butler to answer the door. It’s Suzanne Little herself instead. Apparently that photo in the bio wasn’t taken fifteen years ago; she looks exactly the same. I think of how bad I looked in my forties as a woman back in Europe. I start to hate Suzanne Little.
“Hello Ms. Giddings. I’m Suzanne Little. Won’t you come inside?”
“Thank you.” Maddy motions to me. “This is Frank my photographer.”
“It’s good to meet you, Frank.” Little shakes my hand. “Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable in the living room?”
The living room is an antiques dealer’s wet dream, with a lot of Victorian furniture scattered about. There are modern touches too, like the flat screen television that’s at least sixty inches, if not bigger. It’s probably 3D too. I imagine Vollmer sacks out on the red sofa we sit down on.
Little brings us some tea from the kitchen. I pretend to take a sip of my cup, as does Maddy. Daddy’s little girl is nobody’s fool. “So, Ms. Little, this is some house you have here,” Maddy says. “Could you tell us a little about it?”
“Yes, of course.” She goes on for a few minutes about how the house was first built in the 1830s and how it was nearly burned down by a Confederate sympathizer during the war. Everything was renovated after that and then renovated a couple more times to bring it up to code for the 21st Century.
“That’s fascinating,” Maddy says. She actually writes down notes while Little talks. “Would you be up to giving Frank and I a tour?”
“Of course, young lady.”
I don’t really know how to use the camera. I fake it as best I can; I point the lens and poke the button every so often. Maddy and Little talk as we walk through the house; they discuss the furniture, the window treatments, and the artwork. When not pretending to be taking pictures, I search for any sign of Vollmer’s presence. There doesn’t seem to be anything: no men’s clothes in the closets and the guest rooms are made up neatly.
We’re in the basement when Maddy gets a little bolder. “You live in this big house all by yourself?” she asks.
“I have some friends who stop by occasionally.”
“No one steady, though?”
“I’m afraid not.” Little stares at Maddy for a moment. “Are you a society reporter, Ms. Giddings?”
“I’m just curious. Someone so rich and beautiful must have a boyfriend somewhere.” Maddy rubs up against Little’s side like a cat. “Maybe a girlfriend?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“You can’t blame a girl for trying, can you?” Maddy says. “I mean, reporters get paid peanut
s.”
“Especially reporters who aren’t reporters,” Little says. She’s a lot quicker than I would have thought to draw the revolver from her pocket. I’m quicker to knock it from her hand and then shove her down to the concrete floor.
Before she can try to get up or make for the gun, I have mine out, aimed at her D-cup breasts. “Stay right there, bitch,” I say. “Get her gun, Meredith.”
“What’s her real name?” Little asks. “Who are you people?”
“Just a couple of concerned citizens,” I say. “Now, you’re going to tell us a little story about Uwe Vollmer.”
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t play dumb. One of Vollmer’s prison buddies already gave him up. Said you were floating him money.”
“Obviously that man lied.”
“Sure. So why were you going to pull a gun on my partner?”
“I know you’re not reporters. There’s no Giddings on the District Discourse. And you’re definitely not a photographer. You have cop written all over you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “My captain probably wouldn’t agree with you on that score.”
“Where’s your badge, Detective?”
“This isn’t an officially sanctioned visit.” I cock the hammer on my gun and get rewarded as she slithers back a couple of inches. “Now, tell us about Vollmer.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You want to lose a kneecap?”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“You’re right. I’d start with those pretty hands first. Maybe blow off a couple of fingers. If you’re lucky you might be able to get them reattached later—if there’s a later for you.”
“You won’t—” Before she can finish, I fire the gun. I practiced in the alley outside of Amos’s shop, so I know how this gun kicks. My aim is dead on—I hit the concrete about an inch in front of her left hand.
“All right, all right!” she shouts. “I do know Uwe. It started about twenty-five years ago. I was still a kid. My parents were fighting all the time. They were going to get a divorce pretty soon. I went out to this bar one night and I met Uwe and he was so different from all the stuffy rich kids I knew.”
“So you fell madly in love and helped him murder people?”
“No! I loved Uwe. When they caught him, he said he was innocent and I believed him. I never knew anything about those murders.”
“Why’d you give him money then?”
“I thought he was innocent. I wanted to help him survive in prison. I hired lawyers to work on his appeals too.”
“What about the new murders? You know anything about those?”
“Yes, but only after the fact.” She starts to cry. I’m pretty sure these aren’t crocodile tears either. “No one was supposed to die. He was just going to steal some drugs.”
“You mean from your stepdad’s company?”
“Former stepdad,” she snaps through her tears.
“So you did help him get inside,” Maddy says. “You pulled a few strings to get him access to the building.”
“Yes. He wasn’t going to kill anyone. He was just going to take some of this new drug they were working on, so he could change his appearance. Then we could be together and they would never find him.”
“So where is he?”
“I don’t know where she is,” Little says.
“You two had a falling out?”
“After he took the drug. His body changed. He became…he became a young girl. He looked like he could be my daughter.”
“About how old was she?”
“I don’t know. Seventeen or so. I wanted her to stay with me; we could pretend she was my daughter. It wouldn’t be the same, but at least we could be together. That’s all I ever wanted.” She starts to sob again. Maddy isn’t stupid enough to try to comfort her and neither am I. It could easily be a ploy to get us close to use one of us as a shield. After a couple of minutes she recovers herself enough to say, “She said she wasn’t going to be anyone’s daughter and she wasn’t a dyke so she had to take off. By then I knew about all those dead scientists at Lennox, so I let her go.”
“Without calling the cops?”
“I didn’t know she was behind all those other killings. And even if I called the cops, what would I say? They would have thought I was nuts.”
Little has a point there. Anyone but Jake would have laughed her out of the room or sent her to the psych ward. “So where is she now? What name is she using?”
“I’m not sure where she is.” I cock the gun again to tell her that’s not an acceptable answer. She puts up her hands in supplication. “I know where she was. I gave her some money, enough to get started. She took a suite at the Wellington. I tried calling there the other day and she had already checked out.”
“What name was she using?”
“Erica Conner.”
I lower the gun. “You’d better hope we find her soon,” I say.
“You’re not arresting me?”
“No, but don’t leave town.” I put my gun back in its holster.
“Thank you, Detective.”
“Yeah, sure.” I’m tempted to break her jaw, but I don’t. Not because she’s a woman either. She probably did love Vollmer. Love makes you do a lot of stupid things, like sleep with your daughter’s girlfriend. I remember that saying about those in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
Maddy calls for a cab to pick us up once we’re outside the house. We loiter on the street for a while. “That went pretty well,” she says. “What do we do now?”
“You can go use your computer magic to find out where Erica Conner is staying.”
“You think she’s still in a hotel? Using that alias?”
“Maybe not that exact name, but we might get lucky.”
“Sure.” Maddy actually pats me on the back. “We make a good team. My brains and your brawn.”
“Don’t get any ideas of making it permanent. This was a one-time thing,” I say, but even I don’t believe it.
Chapter 31
Our search for Vollmer—or Erica Conner now—isn’t all that high-tech. For as much as Maddy bragged about her tech skills, Suzanne Little was high-profile enough to be obvious. Just type her name in Google and there are millions of hits for it. Maddy just had to sift through a little data to find what she wanted.
This requires some old-fashioned work. She gets a list of upscale hotels in the city and then we divide it in three. Maddy, Grace, and I each take a third. We call the front desk of the hotel to ask for an Erica Conner. If there’s no one there, we give a description of her and ask if there was anyone like that there a few days ago.
Some hotels are more forthcoming about this than others. A few get snooty about it and act like they’re lawyers or doctors; they refuse to give any “confidential” information. When that happens, I tell them I’m Detective Jake Madigan and give my badge number. That makes them more accommodating.
Maddy is almost done with her list when she hands me the phone. “Got another one,” she says. “Prick won’t tell me anything.”
I take the phone from her. The guy is in the middle of his whole spiel about confidential information when I bark, “This is Detective Jake Madigan.” I give my badge number before I continue, “The girl in question is seventeen years old, a runaway. We need to find her and return her to her parents. Are you going to answer my partner’s questions or are we going to have to come down there and arrest you for obstructing an official investigation?”
The guy gives in. “There is no Erica Conner here,” he says. I’m about to hang up when he adds, “But an Erin Cooper checked in yesterday, room 518. She fits the description your partner gave me.”
“She’s still there?”
“She has not checked out, sir.”
“Thanks.” Then I hang up. “Looks like we got a bead on her.”
“When do we leave?” Maddy asks.
“We don’t leave at all. You stay here with Grace and Clarita.”
>
“Screw that. We’re a team, remember? I’m your partner. That’s what you said to the guy on the phone. What’s he going to think when only one of us shows up?”
“He’s not going to see us. I don’t have a badge, remember?”
“What if someone stops us?”
“No one’s going to stop me.” Not when we’re this close to Vollmer. “This could get rough. I’m not going to risk your life.”
Maddy takes Little’s pistol out of her purse. “I got protection.”
Grace’s face goes pale. “Where the hell did you get a gun?”
“Bitch pulled it on me. Daddy knocked it out of her hand, just like on TV. Then he pushed her ass down. You should have seen her face when he shot at her.”
“You shot at her?”
“I missed on purpose. Got close enough to scare her.”
“Jesus,” Grace says. “Maddy, please don’t go. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing will happen to me. Daddy will protect me.”
I wonder when I became “Daddy” to her again instead of “Steve?” Maybe when I batted that gun away. Or maybe she just wants to manipulate me, like when she would use that adorable lisp as a toddler. She’s a tricky one, my little angel.
“I can protect you a lot easier if you’re not there.”
“Hey, I was the one who got us in the house. I got us in the prison too.”
“Prison?”
“That’s where that little creep we talked to first was at.”
“Madison, stop this. You’re not one of Charlie’s Angels,” I say.
Clarita picks that moment to emerge from her bedroom, clad in a pink nightgown that’s about three sizes too big and with Pinky tight against her chest. “What’s going on?” she asks, her voice still thick from sleep. “Why are you yelling at each other?”
“We’re not yelling at each other, sweetie,” Maddy says. “We’re just talking.”
“About what?”
“Boring adult stuff.”
“I’m an adult too,” she says. “Inside, I mean.”
That’s hard to believe in the nightgown and with the stuffed animal, plus how she’s acted the last few days. She’s a lot more Clarita the ten-year-old than Dr. Clarita Palmer. In this case she might be helpful. “Maddy wants to help me find the guy who did this to you even though it’s going to be very dangerous.”
Chances Are Omnibus (Gender Swap Fiction) Page 82