“My thoughts exactly,” one of the young men cooed to Orita as I sat down at her table.
“It’s tough to compete with the Japanese.” She put a cigarette to her lips.
“Don’t you ever talk to people in the daytime?” I asked testily.
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing,” I snapped.
“My, we’re grouchy. Sounds like you’re not getting any.” She forced a smile and blew a ghostly ribbon of smoke. “I know where we can both get laid.”
I sighed. “Great. This must be true equality when two fairly intelligent women can sit around and talk like two dumb jocks.”
“You’re so middle-class.”
“Somebody has to be.”
“The police have been around Peep Thrills asking a lot of questions. Police make me jumpy.”
“What do you want, Linda?”
“You left the message on my machine. What do you want?”
“Claire Conrad wants to thank you for the tip about Goldie.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The gray eyes were steady. The mouth hard.
“Goldie’s dead. She thinks you called us to let us know about his death.”
“Why would she think it was me? She doesn’t even know me.”
“Through me, she does.”
“She trusts your observations that much?”
Her question threw me. I just thought I was very good at remembering information and passing it on to Claire. I had never thought of it as trust. But in a sense trust was involved. Claire Conrad actually trusted me.
“Yes,” I said with a certain pride.
“Must be nice to trust somebody that way.”
“Why don’t you try it?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Did you make the phone call?”
“I liked Goldie. He protected us. Women don’t get much protection nowadays.”
“What were you doing at the Duke?”
“Checking up on him,” she said vaguely.
“Or were you giving him the money you took from Sarah Grange?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We know you and Goldie were blackmailing her.”
“Who says?”
“She does.”
Linda turned toward the window. The BMW was there. The churches were still holding down their place on the avenue.
“Did you force her to do the video?” I asked.
“I didn’t need to force her to do anything.” She studied her cigarette. “She likes doing porno. Soft-core. Maybe it’s the camera. Look, Sarah’s got maybe five years. And then she’ll be over. Let’s just say that it’s in my interest that she stay at the top as long as she can.”
“Claire doesn’t buy that excuse. Why did Sarah really do the porno?”
“Why don’t you just come out and ask me if I killed Jackie and Goldie? That’s what Claire Conrad wants to know, isn’t it?”
“She didn’t mention it. You’re avoiding my question.”
“But you think I killed them.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
She smashed out her cigarette. “I came to say good-bye. Now I wish I hadn’t.”
“Where are you going?”
“Away.” She turned and looked at Orita. “Maybe Japan. Maybe L.A. Open up a boutique there. Sell only sexy underwear.”
“Just what L.A. needs. It costs money to open up a boutique.”
“I’m very good at raising money. Good-bye, Maggie.” She stood and swayed toward the entrance. Not one young American head turned. They were too busy having the exact same thoughts as Orita. I was right behind her.
“Are you getting paid to leave town?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. I stayed with her through the lobby and out onto the street.
“Are you being paid to leave?” I asked again.
“I like you, Maggie.” She headed toward Park and the BMW. “Let’s part friends.”
“I’m tired of people liking me. I want some answers. Who’s paying you? Sheridan Reynolds?”
“I don’t know any Sheridan Reynolds. Who’s he?”
“He’s a guy walking around with a hundred thousand dollars and a gun in his briefcase. He was Cybella’s lover.”
She pulled open the car door and got in. I stood on the curb.
“What do you have on him?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She pulled away from the curb. I grabbed the side of the car and jumped, swinging my legs over the door and down in the front seat.
“This is embarrassing, Maggie. Get the fuck outta my car.”
“Isn’t it a little dangerous blackmailing two people?”
She swerved back toward the curb and double-parked next to a limo. “Get out.”
“Talk to me.”
“Get out!”
Cars honked. She gunned the car and took off. The wind began its tug-of-war with my hair.
“You’re making this very awkward, Maggie.”
The streetlights yellowed our faces.
“What do you have on Sarah Grange and Sheridan Reynolds?”
“I’m not a blackmailer.”
“Okay, you did something for them and they’re paying you off. What?”
She didn’t answer. She drove with a vengeance, careening around corners. She swerved sharply into an alley. Inside my pocket I held my gun. The car jerked to a stop, motor purring. She stared straight ahead, breathing hard as if she’d been running. The headlights illuminated plastic bags of garbage, a fire escape, and the raw mortar and bricks of the two buildings flanking the alley. As she turned toward me, she reached for something under her seat. Before I could get my gun out of my pocket, her hand came up holding her own.
“Get out of the car, Maggie. Get out!”
“At least it’s not a knife. The murderer used a knife.”
“Get out.”
“I don’t believe you’d shoot me.”
The explosion was deafening. The bullet missed me, but I don’t know how. My ears rang. My eyes felt as if a flash from a camera had gone off in them. I blinked.
“Get out, Maggie!” Linda screamed.
I got out. What else was I going to do, take my gun out so we could shoot each other?
“Sorry, Maggie. Chalk my behavior up to a lack of self-worth.” She threw the car in reverse and backed down the alley. “A lack of identity, a lack of self-esteem,” she shouted at me.
Lack of self-esteem, my ass, I thought, taking the gun from my pocket. It was a self-centered act. I didn’t have to kill her. There was something better. I walked down the alley carefully aiming for the hood of her car. I fired and hit it. Ping!
“A lack of love,” she yelled back.
I got the shiny new grille in my sight and fired, hitting the left headlight. It cracked and splintered. She hit the brakes and leaped out of the car.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I approached with my gun still aimed at the car.
“Chalk it up to a lack of patience. A lack of pity. A lack of stupidity. Chalk it up to being middle-class.”
“I wasn’t going to kill you, Maggie.”
“I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to kill your car.”
I fired another shot into the leather upholstery.
“Shit.”
“I don’t like these kinds of cars. L.A. rich kids and agents who haven’t made it drive them. Who’s paying you to leave town?”
“I can’t tell you.”
I fired another bullet into the backseat. “These cars are passé, did you know that?”
“Stop it. This is all I have to show for my life.” Her lips quivered.
“You better tell me, Linda. Somebody may not like the sound of gunfire. Somebody may have called the police.” I took aim again. “They make you nervous, remember?”
“All right. It is Sheridan Reynolds.”
“What do you have
on him?”
“Look, I don’t have the money yet. Don’t ruin it for me.”
“When are you supposed to get it?”
“He’s going to let me know. And I’m going to enjoy watching him give me the money. That’s all I’m going to tell you, Maggie. You can empty your gun into my car or me. That’s all I’m telling you.”
Again, there was the sound of sirens. We stared at one another.
“And what do you have to do for the money, Linda?”
“Just leave town, that’s all.”
“It’s the video, isn’t it? You found out he’s Sarah’s father and now you’re blackmailing him. How’d you find out?”
“Ask him.”
She got back into the car, backed out onto the street, and threw the car in drive. “Coin of the realm, Maggie,” she yelled, waving her long graceful arm in the air as she sped off.
The sirens were getting closer. I ran like any common criminal with a gun in her hand.
Twenty-two
“WHY DIDN’T YOU AIM for the car’s tires, Miss Hill?” Claire asked the next morning over breakfast.
“Maybe she was aiming for the tires, madam, but hit the headlight instead.” Boulton poured her coffee.
“I was aiming for the car’s grille and hit the headlight instead. Maybe I’m not cut out for this line of work.”
“On the contrary, you have a knack for the profession. Doesn’t she, Boulton?”
“A definite knack, madam.” They smiled at me.
“She’s not smiling, Boulton,” said Claire.
“No, madam.”
“When the two of you are being nice to me at the same time, I have this need to count the silver.”
“The spoons are all there,” she said.
“If I have such a knack, why don’t I understand how you knew that Sheridan Reynolds was paying off Linda Hansen? I mean, I understand why, it’s the video and he doesn’t want any publicity about Sarah Grange. But how did you know that last night before I talked to Linda?”
“Process of elimination. Our beautiful model and Nora Brown have no reason to extort money from him. And Sheridan Reynolds paying off Linda Hansen has nothing to do with the video, Miss Hill.” She sipped her coffee.
I tried to look intelligent. “It doesn’t?”
“There is only one possible reason he’d be paying her off. Remember, it’s his wife’s money. He does what she tells him to. Bring the car around, Boulton. I want to go to Bedford Place.”
I turned Cybella’s key in the door. The dead bolt released. Claire and I stepped inside the apartment. The air was heavy in the living room. Dust had settled on the crystal paperweights, the lamps, the objets d’art. The sterling silver picture frames were beginning to tarnish and the silk shades looked as dried and brittle as an old woman’s bones. The bright yellow cushions on the sofa needed plumping.
“Decor was a necessity for Cybella.” Claire surveyed the room.
She crossed to the fireplace and studied the blowup of mother and daughter. I stared out the window at the East River. A tugboat, which looked as if it had sailed right off the pages of a child’s book, bumped along its dirty waters. On the other side of the river’s bank a Pepsi-Cola sign smeared red letters across the landscape.
“Where is Sarah’s bedroom?” Claire asked.
“The door next to you.”
She opened it and we went in. The bed was unmade. Panty hose, like shriveled legs, were abandoned on rumpled sheets. On the dresser a couple of half-full bottles of water stood among small empty bottles of makeup. A dried mascara wand pointed toward a few discarded lipsticks. Tops off, the lipsticks had been smeared down to pink nubs. A pearlized blue plastic compact had been left open. The pressed face powder was rubbed away, revealing the tin lining. Four small face sponges, soiled with layers of beige makeup, were scattered like chunks of dirty flesh on the floor.
Inside the closet, a cheap cotton blouse seemed to cling to its hanger for life. Navy blue gabardine slacks, shiny from too much wear, hung from a belt loop. A dress, burdened with bows and buttons, lay on the floor, as if in a swoon. Claire poked her walking stick into the corners of the closet.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Linda Hansen told you that Sarah kept a box of fashion magazines in her closet. Sarah’s only connection to her mother.”
“Maybe Sarah took the box with her to Nora’s.”
Claire pulled the blouse off the hanger and looked at it. “Homemade, and washed over and over again until it’s almost yellow.” She checked the hem of the slacks. “Held together with tape. These are the clothes of someone with very little money. No, Miss Hill, I don’t think Sarah took the box of magazines with her.”
“Maybe she threw it out when she left Buffalo.”
“People who are starving hoard the little food they have instead of eating it. It is the same if you are starved for a mother’s attention. You hoard what little piece of memory you have and you don’t give it up easily.”
“But Sarah was with her mother,” I said.
“No, Miss Hill.” Her shrewd eyes stared into mine. “Where is Cybella’s room?”
I showed her. She opened the door and we walked in.
Claire held up her hand, motioning for me not to move. We stood as still as the room. Her eyes took in the bed, the vanity lined with crystal perfume bottles, the small antique bookcase, the silver-framed photographs on the marble-top nightstand. All of it seemed to be fading under a fine layer of dust.
The mirrored closet held our images. Claire, tall and poised, tilted her head to one side, listening to the pressing silence, her white pantsuit a stark contrast to the yellow tones of the room. I, in my beige slacks and beige and white plaid jacket, stood with my feet wide apart. My chin jutted forward, as if daring someone to try to knock me over. Claire raised her walking stick, pointed at our reflections, and smiled, then threw open the closet doors. Our images vanished.
Once again Cybella’s perfume permeated the room. Its very power seem to crack the stillness and disperse the gathering dust. We stared at the designer clothes arranged so methodically in their clear plastic bags. I unzipped the bag containing the evening gowns. Empty bodices and limp skirts still waited for Cybella’s body to bring them to life. The St. Rome dress wasn’t much more than a slice of red fabric. It felt cool and slippery in my hands.
“Jackie must’ve loved the feel of this against her skin,” I said.
Claire took her walking stick and poked it into the dark corners of the closet.
“The box of magazines is not here.” Claire moved to the vanity and sat down on a stool draped in a gold-threaded fabric. “Cybella needed her clothes. She needed her perfume, her jewelry. She needed to be photographed. She needed to look at herself in the mirror. She needed its affirmation. She needed to be reassured that her guilt didn’t show.” Claire opened a drawer and stared at an array of makeup neatly arranged. “She needed to paint her lips red. Brush her cheeks with a youthful blush. Only then could Cybella convince herself that she would not have been a good mother. That giving up her child was the right thing to do. That her love for Sheridan Reynolds was all that mattered.” She closed the drawer. “Then Cybella could put on her red dress and go out. Then she could pretend that, after all these years, it wasn’t for nothing.”
Claire stood and ran her hand along the gold damask cover on the bed.
“Cybella needed her possessions. She needed what could not hurt her. She needed a beautiful daughter.”
“What do you mean?”
Claire turned and looked at the bookcase. She pulled a book from the shelf and opened it.
“Cybella did not seek enlightenment. She was afraid of it. Afraid it might reflect her empty, narcissistic life back at her.” She read the inscription page then returned the book to the shelf.
“Why does the lover always try to transform the object of his or her desire into his or her own image?” she mused. “And why does a mother always
want her daughter to reflect her?” She held up her hand and again we listened to the silence.
“Cybella’s photographs were still. And a mistress, because of her precarious position, must be silent. Yet she reached out to Elizabeth Reynolds only to discover she had given up her child not for the man she loved, but because of his wife and her money. Then finally she reached out to her own daughter.” Claire’s eyes met mine. “Or so she thought. Close the closet doors, Miss Hill. Let her rest.”
In the Bentley Claire told Boulton to take us to Linda Hansen’s. She lived a couple of blocks off Central Park West. When we found a parking place Claire said, “Come in with us, Boulton.”
“Are you expecting trouble?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. The outer door to Linda’s building was unlocked. Her apartment was on the first floor toward the back. I knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately.
“Oh, God, Maggie, go away.” Linda tried to shove the door shut, but Boulton was already halfway in, forcing her back.
“Claire Conrad just wants to ask you some questions,” I said.
“I don’t have anything to say.” She moved restlessly around the small room. A soft butter-colored leather sofa looked like the kind you pull out into a bed. A kilim rug covered most of the bleached wood floor. A telephone and answering machine sat on an art deco–style table. Cigarette butts filled an ashtray next to the phone, pink lipstick thick on the filtered ends.
“Sheridan Reynolds hasn’t arrived yet?” Claire asked.
Linda eyed her suspiciously. She looked younger, more vulnerable in the daylight. Without the smear of pink lipstick, the shape of her mouth was softer. She had on a T-shirt and her short tight leather skirt. Add a strand of pearls and she would’ve made Bonton. Maybe not. There were still the pockmarks.
“Ask your questions and get out of here.” She planted her hands firmly on her hips.
“Where is your bedroom?” Claire demanded.
“You’re standing in it. It’s what they call a studio apartment, something I’m sure you haven’t experienced.”
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