by Susan Fleet
Two minutes later I knocked on his door, aching with anticipation but also filled with dread. I had no idea how this night would end. The door opened and my father appeared. I thought my heart would stop.
He was very handsome, glossy black hair swept back from a high forehead, full lips and dark-brown Asian eyes. He surveyed me from head to toe and smiled, a generous smile that exposed gleaming white teeth. “Come in, Laura. You are every bit as beautiful as Lin said you would be.”
I said nothing. I hated being weighed and measured against some sort of beauty yardstick. He gestured at a cozy loveseat and I sank onto it, grateful I didn’t have to stand. My legs were shaking. I barely noticed my surroundings. My entire being was focused on my father. He was tall and slender, moving with easy grace in his bare feet. He wore tailored black slacks and a ruffled dress shirt with gold cufflinks.
“May I get you a cocktail?” he said. “A glass of wine?”
“A glass of wine, thank you.” I smiled. “I’m a little bit nervous.” My usual opener to put the client at ease. Tonight it was for me. I was terrified.
“Don’t be nervous, Laura Lin. I can tell that we will have a lovely time.”
I said nothing. A lovely time? Not after you hear my big surprise.
He filled two glasses from a bottle of chilled white wine, set them on the Italian-marble table in front of the loveseat and sat beside me.
“I was told you live in New York,” I said. “That must be exciting.”
“Paris is just as exciting and much more beautiful. I was born here.”
My heart did flip-flops inside my chest. “How interesting! I would love to hear about it. Did your parents always live in Paris?” Even as I said this my mind was estimating his age. Mom would have been forty this year, and my father was four years older than she was. This meant Thu Phan was forty-four. Twice my age. I tried not to think about that.
“My father's family had to flee Vietnam in the 1950s. Because of the political upheavals. They settled in Paris. He met my mother here.”
“Is your mother also Vietnamese?” I knew she wasn't, but I wanted to learn everything I could about my heritage.
“No, French. She died years ago. But enough about me. I understand that you also have Asian ancestors. Tell me about your parents, Laura Lin.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Here was an opening as big as the Empire State Building, but it was too soon. I wanted to know more about my father before I delivered my surprise. If I found the courage to do it.
“Later, perhaps. I'd love to hear about your work. Are you a professor at an important university?” By now I knew all the tricks: Flatter a man and he will tell you all about himself, the good parts anyway.
He waved a dismissive hand. “Teaching does not interest me. I own real estate in Manhattan, apartment buildings and retail stores. It took years of hard work to make them pay off, but now my business does quite well." He looked disgustingly pleased with himself. "So I get to travel and see the world.”
And spend obscene amounts of money on call girls.
“Have you ever been to Vietnam?”
“No." He moved closer on the love seat, close enough for me to smell his spicy aftershave lotion, close enough for him to put his hand on my thigh. “You have beautiful eyes and skin, Laura. How did you happen to begin working for The Service?”
“I needed money.” That was the truth. Never mind why I needed it.
He nodded. “You seem quite young. That is why I asked.”
“I’m twenty-two.” I dug my fingernails into my palms. “I was born on April 15, 1978.”
But this announcement of my birth date did not bring the response I had hoped. My father looked puzzled for a moment, then took my hand and ran his fingers down my forearm. “Would you like to make whoopee before we go out for dinner, Laura Lin?”
I sat there, stunned, and my stomach clenched in a painful knot. I had not expected his request to come so soon, and his ignorance of my birth date, willful or not, hurt me deeply. A seedling of anger took root inside me.
“My name isn’t Laura. My name is Natalie.”
He frowned. “I don’t understand. What has this to do with anything?”
“It has to do with Jeanette Brixton.”
A shocked look rippled over his face. “Jeanette? I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do. I am Natalie Brixton, Jeanette’s daughter.”
I don’t know what I expected. I guess I wanted him to embrace me and tell me how thrilled he was to have found his long lost daughter. But he sprang to his feet, hands fisted at his sides, and glared at me. “You are not. Why do you pretend to be someone you are not?”
My cheeks flamed with anger. “Why are you using an escort service?”
His Asian eyes narrowed to slits. “This is not what I paid for, to have some slut berate me.”
“Who are you to call me a slut?” I shouted, unable to keep my voice low and well-modulated as Madame had taught me. “You pay women half your age for sex. You abandoned me when I was two, and you never paid my mother a dime for my support.”
“I don’t have to listen to this.” He pointed to the door. “Get out.”
Tears flooded my eyes. Once again my father was casting me aside just as he had twenty years ago. I rose and faced him. In my spike heels I was almost as tall as he was. It took all my willpower not to spit in his face. “You think women are your playthings? Do you know what your wife had to do to support herself and her child? Your child?”
Something flickered in his eyes and quickly disappeared. His implacable gaze remained locked on mine, but a muscle jumped in his jaw, a telltale sign of his discomfort.
“My mother was a prostitute. That’s what your ex-wife had to do to survive. She had no money and no skills.” I smiled, not my charming smile, the smile I used to convey displeasure and defiance. “Her brother told me she was a great dancer, but not great enough to get a job that would support us.”
He stalked to an antique writing desk and picked up his wallet. “How much do you want? Name your price.”
If I had been holding a gun in my hands I would have shot him.
Fear spilled down my spine like ice water. Not for my physical safety. Thanks to my TKD skills, I felt confident that I could disable most men. It was the Vietnamese Ancestor gods I feared. This man was my father. If I killed him, the angry Ancestor spirits would haunt me forever, seeking to avenge my father’s violent death, as I sought to avenge my mother’s.
I had no gun, of course. I had only words. But words are also powerful.
“Name my price? No price that you could ever pay, Mr. Thu Phan. You never cared about me. If you cared about me, you wouldn't have abandoned me. In all the years after you left, twenty years, you never tried to get in touch with me. Not once. Ever.”
“I was working, trying to make a living." He waved a dismissive hand. "But why should I explain? You wouldn’t understand.”
“Don’t you want to know what happened to my mother?”
Clearly annoyed, he said, “Okay, what happened to her?”
The moment of truth. My truth.
“In 1988 we were living in New Orleans. I was ten. Mom worked six nights a week from nine o’clock until whatever time she got home. While she was at work, I stayed in our crummy little apartment. Alone. And then one day she didn’t come home.” Bitter memories swirled in my mind, sharp and clear.
Tears welled in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.
Thu Phan remained stone-faced. “What happened?”
And I thought: Why sugarcoat the pill? He’s a grown man. He can take it.
“A policewoman rang the doorbell and told me she was dead.”
His mouth gaped open. “How terrible! You must have been—”
“Don’t give me your fake sympathy!” I wanted to twist the knife and make him feel every bit of the guilt he had avoided for twenty years. “The police found her body in a sleazy hotel room. Naked. In bed. One of her joh
ns punched her and hit her. And strangled her.”
Thu Phan took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. “I’m sorry. Give me your address. I will send you a check every month.”
“I don’t want your money,” I said coldly.
He looked puzzled. “What do you want then?”
“Is that what you think life is about? Money? You’re rich enough to buy whatever you want. If you want someone to love you ..." I smiled my terrible smile. "To pretend to love you, you call The Service and they send you a woman who makes you feel important and provides you with sex. That’s all women are to you, playthings to use and discard when you’re done with them.”
“Natalie,” he said in a low voice.
My heart surged when he said my name, acknowledging at last that I was his daughter.
His shoulders slumped like a deflated balloon. “I’m not like that. I’ve been hurt, too.”
It was a very good thing I did not have a gun. “Don’t try to weasel out of this by saying some woman fucked you and dumped you.”
Seeing the shock in his eyes as I said this was priceless. “Want to know how I spent the rest of my so-called childhood? Living with Mom’s brother and his screwed-up family in Texas. My cousin Randy tried to fuck me, but I wouldn’t let him. So he made his sister give him blowjobs.”
My father gaped at me. “Why didn’t his parents stop him?”
“Because his mother was a drunk and his father was having an affair.” All of a sudden I felt exhausted. My insides were shaking. “I’m leaving now. If you care about me at all, Mr. Thu Phan, you will tell no one about this conversation. You will tell Lin and everyone else at The Service that you were absolutely thrilled with the service provided to you by Laura Lin.”
He had the grace to look shamed at least. “I will do that, of course. I wish you would allow me to send you a check ...” He trailed off when he saw the look on my face.
I grabbed my purse, strode past him and stopped at the door. It took all my willpower not to turn and take one last look at him. Part of me wanted to memorize his face. Another part of me wanted him to hold me and comfort me, the little girl he had abandoned so long ago.
But that would be a mistake, because I knew that what I had said was true. Thu Phan was rich and powerful like the man who murdered my mother. Like many powerful men, my father used women. He might not beat them or kill them, but what he did was just as bad: Use their bodies for sex and dismiss them. These ugly thoughts churned through my mind as I rode the elevator down to the hotel lobby.
When the elevator stopped, I ran to a restroom and vomited into a toilet.
CHAPTER 20
Friday, 8 August
“Two minutes and the swordfish should be done.” Frank glanced at Kelly, seated at her kitchen table, her shoulders hunched, her arms hugging her body. “You don’t look so hot. What’s wrong?”
“I’m okay. Just a little cold, that’s all.”
“I’ll get you a sweater.” He pulled the chain on her ceiling fan to turn it off, took foil off the plate of chocolate chip cookies on the counter and gave her one. “You’re hungry. Eat a cookie.”
“I don’t want to spoil my dinner. I’ll be okay.”
“Eat the cookie,” he said sternly. The first two days in the hospital she'd been unable to keep any food down, a normal reaction to the anesthetic the nurses had said. But to him Kelly looked painfully thin.
He went to her bedroom closet, found a white cardigan and returned to the kitchen. The cookie was gone. Kelly gave him a guilty grin.
“Hey, don’t look guilty. The doc said to fatten you up.”
“He did not.”
“Well, words to that effect." He helped her put on the sweater. "Hold on while I check the fish.”
He opened a slider door, stepped onto her deck and raised the lid of the gas grill in the corner. The swordfish looked great, toasty brown on the top, smelled even better. He plopped it on a platter and cut into the middle to make sure it was done. Perfect. He took the fish inside and set it on the table.
“Wow,” Kelly said, “it smells great. I guess I really am hungry.”
He took two baked potatoes out of the oven, set them on dinner plates and brought them to the table, went back for a dish of fresh-steamed broccoli, set it on the table and sat down opposite Kelly.
“Dig in," he said. "Oops, we need butter for the potatoes.” He got a stick of butter out of the refrigerator, put it on a saucer and brought it to the table.
“Frank, you’re working too hard. Sit down and eat.”
“Working too hard? My favorite woman needs nourishment!”
She tried the swordfish. “Fantastic. You’ve been lying. You told me you don't know how to cook.”
He waved a hand. “Push comes to shove I can.”
“Dad and Michael are flying down from Chicago for the weekend.”
He was glad the two cops in her family were coming to lend their support but it might cause complications.
“Guess I won't be staying here over the weekend, huh?”
“Mmm, probably not. But Dad wants to meet you.”
He paused with a forkful of potato halfway to his mouth. “Is that good or bad?”
“I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you. Dad can be rather possessive but he said he was glad you were here to look after me.”
He was still trying to figure what that meant, when his cell rang. He answered without checking Caller ID.
“Heyyy, Franco, what’s doing?”
A visceral jolt ran through him down to his scrotum. Only one person ever called him Franco. Gina.
Aware that Kelly was listening, he said, “Hey, whaddaya know?” The greeting he’d used during the nine years he and Gina had been lovers.
“Got something juicy for ya. Are you busy?”
He glanced at Kelly. She was toying with a lock of hair, watching him. “Sort of, but it’s okay. What’s up?”
“Last week I caught an AP wire story about the Peterson case,” Gina said. “I’ve been following it online. We just got a similar case up here. A VIP murdered in a posh hotel.”
His heart rate kicked into high gear. Gina covered the crime beat for the Boston Herald and had connections with a few cops. “What the guy's name?”
“Oliver James. Someone put a bullet in his head.”
“One shot to the head?” he said for Kelly’s benefit. Kelly’s eyes widened.
“Yeah," Gina said. "Just like Peterson. They found him in the Marriott Hotel near Copley Place.”
“Who is he? You got any background?”
“Recently he’s been dealing in art antiquities. Before that he made a shitload of money in the stock market. Before that he worked for the CIA.”
“CIA?” He looked at Kelly, who gazed at him wide-eyed. “When?”
“It’s a long story. Bottom line, a woman in the next room heard a gunshot and called hotel security. A guard went up to talk to her. While they were talking, a woman came out of the room where they found the body.”
“Jesus. Just like Peterson. Did they get her?”
“No,” Gina said. “But they got her car and her name.”
Kelly’s doorbell rang. She started to get up, but he flapped his hand at her and said to Gina, “Hold on a second, I'll be right back.”
Pressing the phone to his leg, he said to Kelly, “This is a Boston reporter I used to know. She’s covering a murder that might be connected to ours. Eat your dinner. I’ll get the door.”
He dashed through the living room and opened the door. Kenyon Miller stood there with a foil-covered pan. “Yo, Frank. Got a pan of lasagna for Kelly. Tanya made it. Also got some news for you.”
“Me too,” he said, waving his cell. “Do me a favor. Go sit with Kelly while she eats. I got a line on a case in Boston that might tie into ours.”
As Miller ambled toward the kitchen Frank hurried down the hall to Kelly’s room. He hadn’t spoken to Gina for two years, and he wanted to talk to her withou
t monitoring every word that came out of his mouth. He sat on the bed and murmured into his cell, “Sorry, Gina, I’m with some people, had to find a quiet place so we can talk. How you doing? It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Same here." And after a pause, "I’m doing okay, I guess.”
“What’s going on? Is something wrong?"
“Long story, Franco. Listen, this is case is a hot potato, and I can't get much from my police sources.”
“What about the woman? You got a name?”
“That’s the problem. They won’t tell me.” Gina chuckled, a low throaty sound. “But if you come up here, they’ll tell you.”
He had mixed feelings about going to Boston. If the case was related to the Peterson and Conroy murders, Vobitch would send him in a heartbeat, but he didn’t want to leave Kelly alone too long while she was convalescing.
“You know how the budget scene works. But I’ll get up there someway or other. Any chance we can get together for a drink or dinner?”
After his ex-wife filed for divorce and called Gina the “other woman,” his life had gone in the toilet. Gina’s husband also filed for divorce. Then the little girl died in the Fuckup and he'd moved to New Orleans. He and Gina had kept in touch for a while, but two years ago, Gina had remarried. They hadn't spoken since.
“Sure we can. Just call my cell and tell me when you’re coming.”
He wanted more details on the murder, but he was more concerned about Gina's reaction when he asked how she was doing. “What’s going on, Gina? Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better, Franco. Tell you all about it when I see you. Call me.”
She clicked off and he sat there, lost in thought. He was happy to hear from her, even happier to know she was thinking of him. But something was wrong. Gina had the most bombastic personality of any women he’d ever known. Today she sounded sad, almost melancholy.
When he returned to the kitchen, most of Kelly’s dinner was gone. Seated opposite her with a bottle of Bud, Miller started to get up, but Frank waved him off. “Don’t get up. I’m too wired to sit. This might be the break we need.”