“Just once. And he had to cheat to do it.” Brooke narrowed her eyes. Lacey had seen that look before. It was a look to be feared. “You don’t understand, Lacey. I don’t lose. I don’t.”
Brooke collected herself while they lingered at an exhibit about female spies, Mata Hari, Belle Starr, and the female heroines who spied for George Washington’s famous espionage ring and helped turn the tide in the American Revolution.
“Okay, Brooke,” Lacey said. “Let’s say Maksym Pushkin is a smart, handsome, charming, unscrupulous man. Oh, and tall too,” she added. “He plays dirty and he won one he should have lost. That doesn’t make him a Russian spy.”
“No, it doesn’t. But I don’t trust Pushkin. Everything about him is too good to be true, and you know what that usually means. There are home-grown operatives here and foreign agents working to undermine America. Pushkin is Russian by birth. He has family in Russia. He travels to Russia all the time. He defends Russian oligarchs in court. He was at Kinetic last night, a hot bed of Russians. And he’s danced with them.”
“But has he kissed them too?” Brooke mock-glared at her. “I’m kidding. You have no proof, do you?”
“I don’t. But Damon is working on it.”
Oh, great. I can hardly wait for that story. It’s bound to be insane.
“We were all at the show, Brooke. Doesn’t mean we’re all double agents. And by the way, what did you think of the show?”
Brooke pursed her lips and pondered before answering. “Technically perfect. Visually brilliant. Relentlessly musical. But somehow heartless.”
“The source material is pretty grim.”
“The problem is the heart is missing, lost in all that athletic proficiency and dazzling stagecraft.”
“Mathematically precise,” Lacey agreed. While she thought the show was beautiful, there was something very analytical about it. She was almost sorry now that she hadn’t seen the apparition Marie had. “You’re right, the heart was missing.”
“The telltale heart, so to speak.”
Marie’s ghost in red: Was that the missing heart of Kinetic?
“Brooke, did you see a ghost on stage last night?”
“Of course, the stage was full of ghosts! I lost count.”
If I don’t tell Brooke, she’ll never forgive me. And Marie didn’t say not to.
“Listen,” Lacey said quietly. “Marie saw a ghost on stage in a red shroud, a ghost who seemed lost, not part of the action. Did you or Damon see anything like that?”
“No!” Brooke shivered and rubbed her arms. “Did you?”
“None of us did. Just Marie.”
“Good God, Lacey. I have no idea what that could mean. But it doesn’t sound like a good omen.”
“Well, maybe it just means Marie sees things the rest of us don’t. It may not mean anything. But Brooke, we can’t paint every Russian with the same brush. It’s wrong. Aside from the spies—and we don’t know who they are—most of these people are here because they had to flee Russia. They cherish freedom. Like the Kepelovs.”
“Some of them, yes. You’re forgetting the opportunists and the agents in place and the Russian Mafia. They all cling to each other.”
“If I were in living in a foreign country, I’d seek out other Americans sometimes too,” Lacey argued. “I might miss speaking English once in a while.”
“But we can’t be too careful. Putin is beating his chest, playing chess with our dim-bulb diplomats, and corrupting Americans from the swamp to the White House.”
“Don’t forget, he does it all shirtless too! On horseback. And he’s very white. Not terribly appetizing.” Fashion clue, or ego clue?
“I know! Putin, beating his pasty-white shirtless chest! Brrr! Russian agents are flooding this town like never before. They want nothing less than the complete destabilization of our government. And the road there is littered with Russian bodies. Russians who opposed Putin, Russians who got too close to Putin, Russians who know too much for Putin’s comfort.”
“Brooke, this is different from your usual conspiracy theories.”
“This is different from anything we’ve ever faced. As real as all those dead bodies,” Brooke said. “And one of the creepiest things is that the Russia-backed alt-right crazies have taken over most of the big conspiracy websites. But not DeadFed and Conspiracy Clearinghouse. Damon and I are a voice crying in the wilderness.”
They fell silent, still standing before the exhibit on George Washington’s spy ring. Around them swirled a mob of laughing children, playing Spy vs. Spy. They were giggling and whispering, running through the child-sized tunnels, squealing at the exhibits and their parents.
A city of spies, Lacey thought. That’s what these kids would remember most from their trip to the Nation’s Capital.
“SO TELL ME,” BROOKE asked. “What was Kepelov doing there? Really doing there?” They paused by the Bond Villains exhibit to admire those super-villains who had tried to destroy the world—and who could only be stopped by one man: Bond, James Bond.
“He wanted to see the play because it was performed by a Russian émigré theatre troupe he’d never heard of. I think he was annoyed that I knew more about them than he did. Gregor is not really a theatre person, my guess.”
“He was speaking Russian with a number of people. I saw him. Not that I understood a word of it.”
“Gee, Brooke, did they sound like spies?” Lacey arched her eyebrows.
“Hmph. What did Marie have to say? Did she faint?”
“No, she took a Valium. Dulls the psychic vibrations, she says, and Gregor wanted her to enjoy herself last night. A rare night out for them.”
“And why is that?” Lacey wondered what she could say. “Lacey?”
She fixed Brooke with a look. “This must never appear on DeadFed. Don’t even tell Damon. I mean it.” She waited for Brooke to nod. “They don’t hang out with the D.C. Russian crowd because Marie is afraid. That someone might try to kill him. Polonium or ricin, or something equally unattractive.”
Brooke nodded again. “Well, she might be right. He’s ex-Russian intelligence, so he’s potentially a target. If he’s really as pro-American as he says, that makes him a different kind of target. Tell him not to stand in front of windows. Or fall off any balconies. That’s popular this year.”
“All natural causes, too, I understand.”
“You know I’ve never trusted Kepelov, Lacey, not completely. We met him under, let’s say, unusual circumstances. Sure, he’s been your friend and ally, but he’s a treasure hunter at heart, always after something, like phantom Fabergé eggs.”
Lacey couldn’t argue with any of that. “You know what they say: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer? Either way, I should keep Gregor Kepelov close.”
“I agree. And Lacey, I respect the fact that you’re holding something else back. Don’t bother denying it. You’re on to something on the Amy Keaton death and you’re not telling me.” Brooke’s shoulders slumped a bit. “And I’m really sad that if it weren’t for Damon you would tell me.”
There was nothing Lacey could say. There were rules, even among friends. Feeding Brooke any information about the hollow Lenin medals in the dress was out of the question. It might put Brooke in danger. Lacey had promised Kepelov, and Vic, and Marie. Damon would print some garbled version of it and that might ruin any chance to get at the truth.
And I still have no idea if there is any connection to Keaton’s death.
“Damon respects you,” Brooke insisted. “Really.”
Like a puppy dog who wants a biscuit. Brooke dug into her bag and produced the program from The Turn of the Screw. The page with the dedication to Amy Keaton was circled in red. Taped to it was the news brief Trujillo had written for the police column, and last, but not least, the overwrought editorial that Wiedemeyer produced.
“What do you know about Amy Keaton’s death?” she demanded. “I promise it won’t go any farther.”
“Honestly, B
rooke, I don’t know anything except that she’s dead. There’s not even a cause of death determination yet. I have Trujillo trying to get something from the M.E. Cops say it’s an accident.”
“She had a knock-down drag-out fight with LaToya over a dress. Don’t forget I saw that too. Forty-eight hours later, Keaton is dead. And that’s an accident?”
“I don’t know! LaToya had nothing to do with that. That so-called fight was just a warm-up for LaToya and you know it. I don’t have any inside dope on Keaton’s death. Besides, reporters are interested in reporting the news, not making it.”
“So you’ve talked to Broadway Lamont?”
“I have. I’m sure Damon has too.”
“And Damon says there was something weird about LaToya’s break-in, but Lamont wouldn’t talk about it.” Brooke waved her small collection of papers. “You know there’s more to this story.”
“Isn’t there always? I’ve talked to a lot of people, but I don’t know anything else about Keaton’s death. I promise. I don’t know if there is a connection to the dress.”
“So far.”
The famous Aston-Martin DB5 from the Bond film Goldfinger was just ahead of them, surrounded by a knot of tourists. The Goldfinger theme music played as the Aston flashed its lights, twirled its license plate, and raised the bulletproof shield protecting the rear window. Simulated machinegun fire thundered and whirling blades ejected from the wheels to slash pursuers’ tires.
Hollywood magic, Lacey reflected. Theatre and espionage once again converge.
Lost in their own thoughts, Lacey and Brooke wandered through more exhibits, past the Third Reich’s Enigma machine, past mockups of famous dead drops and other classics of espionage tradecraft. They sat through the videos on rogue Americans who betrayed their country to the Soviets. And for what? Nothing but a few dollars and endless shame.
Welcome to the Spy Museum, Lacey thought. If you weren’t paranoid going in, you will be coming out.
Brooke’s phone rang inside her tote bag, and she looked at the number.
“Benjamin,” she said to Lacey, annoyed. She answered the call. “What now, little brother?” She listened. “Yes, you are interrupting us.” Dramatic sigh, and then a laugh. “Don’t panic, I’ll be there. Keep your shorts on.”
“Let me guess,” Lacey said. “Something legal came up.”
“Sorry. Have to go.”
“Off to save democracy, no doubt?”
“We live to serve. I’m so sorry, Lacey. I’ll make it up to you.”
“It’s okay, Brooke. We’ll do lunch next time. I would never stand in the way of you preserving Truth, Justice, and the American way.”
Brooke hugged her and slipped on her baby blue sunglasses. She saluted Lacey and headed briskly toward the EXIT sign.
On her way out, Lacey decided she deserved a souvenir. There was one big red coffee mug in the Spy Museum gift shop that she liked. It was emblazoned with the image of a slinky female spy in a trench coat and the warning, Beware of Female Spies! And knowing Brooke would have argued her into lunch in Chinatown at a Chinese restaurant (which would have given Lacey a headache), she headed directly for the ChopHouse.
SEATED IN ONE OF THE cozy upholstered booths all alone, Lacey felt positively decadent. Housed in an old bank building, the District ChopHouse’s stately décor was dark and soothing, and American comfort food called to her, in the form of savory steak tips and good bread and butter. She would order a cappuccino later to top it off.
Eating alone gave her time to decompress and to people-watch. Judging by their clothes, most of her fellow diners seemed to be enjoying a break from work, or else conducting business over lunch. Suits and tailored dresses were the order of the day. The occasional tourists, complete with fanny packs, loud T-shirts, and giant sunglasses propped on their heads, looked out of place, but they didn’t seem to care. Tourists in D.C., Lacey had observed, usually looked either happy or miserable. There was no in-between setting. This bunch looked pretty happy.
Lacey was slathering butter on a piece of bread when her phone rang. It was Vic. For a brief moment, she hoped he was there in the restaurant. She raised her head and looked for him.
“Where are you?”
“My office. Finalizing a contract for a new client.”
“Contracts and clients. Sounds boring.” She settled back in the booth. His voice sounded wonderful.
“Not when I start sending them bills. That part is fun. Where are you?”
“Lunch at the ChopHouse. By myself.”
“Thought you were lunching with the conspiracy queen.”
“She got a call. The law never sleeps.”
“How about you? Are you available tonight?”
She smiled into the phone, thoughts of a romantic evening with Vic dancing in her head. “What do you have in mind?”
“Kepelov wants us to have a meeting. To come up with a plan.”
“No!” Her spirits sank. “A night at the theatre is one thing, but every night this week has been a Kepelov night.”
“Under the circumstances, darling, I’m inclined to believe a plan is in order. And maybe Gregor’s got some old KGB tricks up his sleeve.”
“I am not going anywhere tonight, Vic. I am going home and I am not moving a muscle.”
“Okay then. We’ll meet at your apartment. Say seven?”
“My place? I am not providing snacks and drinks, Vic Donovan! I mean it. I am going to lie on the sofa and eat grapes. Which you will peel for me. For getting me into this thing.”
Vic found her way too funny. His laugh was deep and soothing, and vaguely mocking. “Grapes it is. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to move a muscle. Gotta go. Love you, Lacey.”
“Love you too. But I’d rather love you alone tonight.”
“Me too. But this will be our last night with the spy who came in from the cold.” He signed off. She stared at the phone after he hung up,
Against her better judgment, she used her phone to check Conspiracy Clearinghouse, to see what Damon Newhouse had written, if anything. Turns out he had been inspired by the previous night’s play.
Russian Theatre’s Turn of the Screw:
Ghost Story? Or Theatrical Analogy for Destabilizing U.S. Government?
It was the usual journalistic goulash that Damon had perfected. Spies were everywhere, even in the theatre, even in the afterlife. Even in Henry James.
Lacey ordered that cappuccino she’d promised herself and pulled her brand-new Spy Museum mug out of its bag. She contemplated its message: BEWARE OF FEMALE SPIES!
But was it necessarily female spies that she should be worried about?
CHAPTER 31
Resisting the urge to run home and make sure everything was freshly vacuumed and the pillows fluffed for the soon-to-be-descending troupe of Russians, Lacey decided instead it was the perfect day to pamper herself—and pick up some gossip.
“Well, well, well! Look who the cat dragged in.”
Stella was at the counter of Stylettos with a freshly coiffed patron, who had apparently wanted aggressive highlights. Her hair resembled a black-and-white zebra, but the woman left looking happy. Lacey gave her friend a look.
“What? It’s what she asked for. Mine is not to question why. Mine is but to do and dye.”
“Cute, Stella.”
Stella was still channeling the Fifties and Sixties today, from her thick cat-eye makeup to her outfit beneath the salon smock. She wore her hair up, in a moderate beehive wound around with a ribbon headband. All the backcombing required for a beehive was bad for the hair, she often told Lacey. (“Totally wrecks the strands. Fractured split ends, who needs that?”) But it added a few inches to her petite height. Her legs were encased in tight red capris. Under her smock was a tight leopard-patterned bustier. No one else in D.C. seemed to dress like Stella. At least not during the day.
Together, she and Lacey looked like two ends of those decades’ spectrum. Lacey, in pink with her French tw
ist, was prim and proper. Stella, pushing the envelope, and her Girls, in her corset top, was always the wild child.
“Look at you, Lace,” she said. “Pink wiggle dress! Very sexy, Pollyanna.”
“Hi to you too, Stella. Do you have time for a tiny trim?”
“So that’s why you’ve got the up do going on. Hiding those ends.”
“And?”
“Depends. As long as you spill everything you know about that Amy Keaton. You know, the dead woman who rumbled with LaToya last weekend?” As if Stella had to distinguish between all the dead women they might have in mind.
“Not you too.” Rumbled? Was Stella watching 1950s motorcycle movies?
“What do you mean me too? I should be first in line with the info. Me first. Stella Lake Griffin. Now, what happened?”
“The short version is I don’t know.”
“Okay, now the long version of why you don’t know and what you don’t know.” Stella examined Lacey’s hair critically, pulling the hair pins from the French twist and combing through the locks with her fingers. “You are overdue for a trim, girl. You see these ends? These ends are ragged and dry.”
“Half an inch.” Lacey measured with her fingers.
“Ha.”
“I mean it, Stella.”
“An inch, or no deal. You got an inch of damage. I will not be held responsible for these ends. Look at it my way. You’re advertising my work.”
“And that zebra-striped job I just saw?”
“A different audience.”
Drama, it’s always drama. Lacey pulled her hair back. All she wanted was to close her eyes and have her hair washed, trimmed, and blown dry into something sleek, so that every strand fell into place. Something to take her worries away. Perhaps a manicure too.
“May I put on the smock before I get the obligatory lecture?”
“Make it snappy. And we’re doing a deep conditioner too.”
Lacey donned the black Stylettos smock and Stella personally guided her to the shampoo bowl.
“I don’t have much to report,” Lacey said.
The Masque of the Red Dress Page 24