by Thomas Perry
“Why would you risk your life to help me?”
“Maybe I’m not helping you. Maybe I’m helping her.”
After that night, Till waited a month for an answer to the advertisements he and Jay Chernoff had placed in magazines and newspapers. At the end of the month, he paid a visit to Garden House, even though it wasn’t the day of the week when he usually came. He drove past the house five times at ten-minute intervals, parked in the lot beside a supermarket, and walked a half mile to the house, searching the neighborhood harder than usual for any sign of change. Later that evening, he took Holly to a movie, then had a long, serious talk with her and left her at her door.
When he got home, he called Chernoff. “Jay, Wendy’s not coming in. It’s time for me to go after her.”
9
SYLVIE LOVED the evenings at the dance studio. The studio’s exterior was deceptive. It was one of the best ballroom dancing studios in the city, but it was on a block that contained both a plumbing-fixture showroom and several middle-class houses, on the upper level of a long wooden building that consisted of two galleries of suites.
Tonight was Tango Night, and she and Paul were especially good at the tango. Eight years ago, they had gone to Buenos Aires and spent two months studying with the noted dance mistress Renata Gomez La Paz. The dance mistress was less than five feet tall and bony and was reputed to be in her seventies, but she had worn a black leotard, high heels and a scarlet skirt to demonstrate the steps to her disciples. Her makeup was thick, with blood-red lipstick and dark eye shadow. Her hair had been dyed coal black and tied in a bun. Enormous gold hoops hung from her ears, and on each of her hands had been three glittering diamond rings. Sylvie had kept thinking that, given her age, the diamonds were antique, probably the kind that would not be found anywhere again.
When Señora Gomez La Paz spoke, she bit her words with bared teeth. Although Sylvie did not speak Spanish well, she knew that the señora had said she danced like a cow. Paul had lied to her about it, but Sylvie had not minded. That was part of it, wasn’t it? The tango wasn’t about cuddling. The dancers held themselves in tension. The dance was about lust and jealousy and suppressed hatred.
The experience had conferred on her and on Paul an implied authority at the dance studio. They had learned the dance from one of the legendary choreographers in Buenos Aires, not from some little cutie in Van Nuys who had learned it as an elective class at Oklahoma State.
Paul backed the black BMW into the lot and parked it nose-out, far from the others. Then he leaned suddenly toward Sylvie in the shadowy car and kissed her. She leaned to him, letting the kiss go on for a long time. It was hard and passionate, not exactly affectionate. Then Paul was out of the car, around the back to open her door. He offered his hand to help her out, and she took it, placing the lightest, most graceful touch on the back of his hand as she stood.
She moved toward the building, heard the car door slam shut and then Paul’s long, rapid strides to catch her, and felt his hand on her waist. Already she was excited, ready. As they climbed the stairs to the upper gallery she could hear the music behind the door at the end of the walkway. Paul took a half-step ahead in the last yard to swing the door inward for her, and she stepped inside. Sylvie was conscious of making an entrance. She strutted across the polished floor and tossed her black-fringed shawl over a chair negligently, knowing that all of the other dancers were watching her movements and watching Paul hover at her shoulder attentively, maybe possessively. She held herself erect, able to emphasize her height and slenderness when she stood with Paul, because he was a few inches taller. She dressed for Tango Nights the way Señora Gomez La Paz had dressed, knowing that on Sylvie, the costume was elegant and exotic.
She had already completed her survey of the other dancers in the room by looking at the mirrored wall where Mindy stretched at the ballet barre. Mindy lifted one leg to the barre and rested it there and then touched her forehead to her knee. Mindy raised her blond head and gave a flash of bright white teeth and a long welcoming gaze in the mirror, but her eyes didn’t seem to be focused where they should be. Sylvie half-turned her head to follow the trajectory of Mindy’s stare off the mirror to Paul. Sylvie raised her right foot to the seat of the chair where she had draped her shawl and examined her shoe, as though she had not seen.
Mindy had made a foolish miscalculation. She had a pretty little figure that stayed in shape because she had to work as an aerobics instructor during the day. She had a cute round face with wide blue eyes and bleached teeth and hair. She undoubtedly got plenty of attention from older married men every day, but she had made a misguided assumption in picking out Paul. Mindy had no idea who Paul was. She had no idea who Sylvie was.
Paul had a very thin waist, fine features, a complexion that was smooth, and big eyes with long lashes. The look was probably what the attraction was for Mindy. She was like those teenaged girls who had crushes on boy singers who looked like other teenaged girls. Paul seemed docile and unthreatening: He was the sort of man who went to the door and bought cookies from the Girl Scouts and sent them off feeling charmed. But Paul was other things, too.
A faint smile formed on Sylvie’s lips at the thought of Mindy’s error, and her jealous feeling went away. She felt the warm-up music in her stomach and in her spine, and she put her foot on the floor and began to do a few steps by herself. Instantly Paul recognized them and was with her, dancing the beginning of a routine that Señora Gomez La Paz had taught them.
Several of the other couples were drawn to them and stood nearby watching, and a few others stopped and tried to learn the steps by imitating them. Paul held Sylvie and spun her around. She could see Mindy for a second, pretending to finish her warm-up by doing stretches and paying no attention.
Sylvie was whirled the other way, and she could see their admirers again. They were mostly married couples in their late thirties or early forties like the Turners, with just a few who were older. They had all taken dance lessons, and a few had some competition experience, so it was an advanced group. They were businesspeople or professionals, and a lot of pairs arrived in two cars, even though the class started at eight-thirty.
At exactly eight-thirty, Mindy turned off the music and called out, “Good evening, señors and señoritas. I see you all remembered it was Tango Night, and really got into the spirit of it.” She surveyed the group of twenty people and gave the women time to look critically at each other’s outfits, which were heavy on blacks and reds, with black fishnet stockings. “Tonight we have a lot of work to do, because I want to show you three great steps I just learned myself. Here is the first one. I’ll do the woman’s part.” She put the music on and danced a slow, stately passage, made a turn as the music changed, and stalked forward. “See? Four steps, a procession. Then pirouette, and then the lioness, hunting, comes forward.” She repeated it three more times, and then watched the women in the group attempt it three times. Now and then she rushed to one of them and adjusted the student’s posture or raised an arm higher.
Next she demonstrated the male part, and watched the men try to imitate her. They were less convincing than the women, and their movements were calculated to make Sylvie remember that all of them except Paul spent their days locked in offices. Mindy called out, “Now we put the two together and make magic.” There was some appreciative laughter, and the uncertain set of partners moved out to the floor, clinging to each other.
She said, “By the way, we should welcome the Turners. They’ve been away for a month or so in Europe. It’s always good to see them, especially on Tango Night, because they’re our experts. Paul, can you come up and be my partner for this demonstration?”
Paul gave a perfunctory smile, glanced into Sylvie’s eyes and then went to stand beside Mindy. He put his arm around her shoulders as they stood in front of the group. She spun her body and her right hand grasped his left. Only then did she remember to lean down to the CD player to begin the music, so her move turned into a dramatic dip.
Sylvie felt a soft tap on her shoulder, not like the touch of a hand, but the feel of a small animal trying to crawl onto her shoulder. She shivered and whirled in involuntary repugnance and saw the grinning face of Grant Rollins. She knew he was a lawyer who lived in Tarzana. He was five feet seven and weighed at least two hundred and thirty pounds, and whenever he took his coat off, sweat defined his armpits. “Phyllis is running late tonight. Can we team up for this?”
Sylvie nodded, stunned. She and Grant Rollins stepped out to join the others, and as she began to dance, he stepped on her foot. “Sorry.” She glared down at him, and saw the top of his head. He was watching his feet.
She was acutely, painfully aware that she must look ridiculous with him. She was a head taller than he was. She stiffened her arms and held him away from her. He danced haltingly, off the rhythm and unmoved by the passion of the music. She hated this. When they came to the dip, Sylvie had to just lean back slightly and perfunctorily, to avoid having little Grant try to hold her up and fail. She wasn’t going to end up on the floor with Grant on top of her.
At last the demonstration was over: Her ordeal had ended. Paul came back to stand beside her, his expression sympathetic. She could barely look at him. Mindy danced the rest of the practice with Grant. He was an inch taller than she was, so they looked only like two generations, not like two different species.
The music stopped again and Mindy blocked out the next step, first the female side, then the male. When all of her students had learned to move in imitation of what she had done, she said, “Sylvie, can I borrow Paul again to demonstrate?”
“No.” Sylvie had not been aware that she was going to say it, but once it was out, she felt hot, defiant.
Mindy thought it was a joke. “Please?”
“Next time he wants sex, you come over and help me out. Then I’ll let you dance with him.”
Mindy’s face turned pale, except for a reddening spot on each cheek. She laughed, looking faint. “What a generous offer, but I’m afraid I have a boyfriend.”
“Then bring him and make him dance with you.”
The red spots on Mindy’s face were growing, about to reach her neck. “Okay, Grant. Then it’s up to you.” Grant hesitated, then stepped close to her. She took his hand and assumed the dance position. “Ready? One-two.” Mindy carried on her demonstration, holding Grant Rollins as far from her body as she could. After she finished and the students were taking their places to dance, she restarted the CD and let them dance as they would, while she retreated to the farthest corner of the room and observed in silence. When Phyllis Rollins came in looking breathless and flustered, Mindy took a few minutes to show her the two new steps. She did not make any attempt to teach the class her third step, and never spoke to the group again until ten, when she stopped the music, smiled a false smile, and called out, “Marvelous, everyone. You’ve all learned it so well! Now remember, next Tuesday will be Samba Night. Good night. Drive carefully.” Then she walked the length of the mirrored wall to the back of the building where the dressing room and storeroom were, and closed the door.
As the others filed out, Paul leaned close to Sylvie. “Was that necessary?”
Sylvie faced him, her hands on her hips. “I was left to dance with a troll. I looked big and clumsy.”
“It was just for a couple of minutes.”
“She humiliated me, and you helped her.”
“She made an innocent mistake.”
“If it were innocent, it wouldn’t be a mistake.” She picked up her purse and shawl from the chair and let him escort her to the door. When she got there, she verified that the other members of the class were all far along the upper gallery now, and many were already down the steps, getting into their cars or standing on the asphalt and talking. They were alone with Mindy. Sylvie stopped in the doorway. “Maybe I’ll kill the little bitch.”
“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!” Sylvie could see that Paul was getting angry. She wasn’t sure why his displeasure was making her sexually aroused, but it was. She had felt the excitement of dancing to the passionate music, then felt so totally bereft and alone, and now she had his attention, all of it. His eyes, his mind were focused only on Sylvie.
She said, “She’s all alone.”
“Twenty-five people know that we’re here, the last ones, and saw you get jealous. You made a joke out of it, but they knew.” As he spoke, he held both her arms in his hands, his face less than a foot from hers.
She lifted her face to him and kissed him. “You’re right. Bad idea.” She went out the door and he followed. It was only when they were outside that she heard the page. “Oh God!” she muttered, and reached into her purse, pawing things aside.
“What?”
“The pager. It’s been vibrating in my purse. I wonder how long that’s been going on.” She looked at the telephone number on the display. “Let’s get to a pay phone.”
They hurried along the second-floor walkway, the heels of Sylvie’s shoes making a pock-pock sound. They were down the stairs and in the black BMW in a moment.
Three minutes later Mindy was still standing inside the storeroom that she used as a dressing room, her ear to the door. She wanted to be sure all of the members of the class had departed before she came out. She could not bear to look at them or hear them talk again tonight. She didn’t bother to analyze her sudden reluctance. She just felt through with them for now. After a few more minutes of silence, she took her purse and costume bag, opened the door a crack and verified that all of them had gone. The outside door was propped open and the hot night air had come in to stimulate the air conditioning system, so the fans were humming, blowing a frigid breeze onto the empty dance floor.
A HALF MILE AWAY, Paul sat in the car with the engine running, watching the mirrors and windshield while Sylvie stood outside at the pay telephone beside the gas station. He didn’t need to look directly at her, because he felt her position automatically. In a moment he felt her beside him again. She slammed the door.
He looked at her and saw the puzzled, thoughtful expression. “Well?”
“Jack Till is on the move. Densmore thinks he’s going somewhere to pick her up.”
Paul smiled as he put the car into gear and drove. “Finally,” he said.
10
JACK TILL DROVE HARD in the summer night, still driving the way he had when he had been a cop, pushing the speed limit just enough to move him past the trucks that were pushing it, too, but letting the future organ donors flash past him. To his left was the endless dark ocean, with only the ruler-straight row of lighted oil platforms in the channel to relieve the blackness. On his right were the high sand hills that in daylight seemed to be held there by goldenrod and wildflowers, but at night were only looming shadows. He had the air conditioning on high, so the interior of the car was cold and kept him alert. Twenty minutes later, he began to pass the Santa Barbara exits. He waited until he had reached the Storke Road exit, took it, and then the second ramp onto Sandspit Road. He went past the airport entrance to the row of car rentals, pulled into the first lot and stopped.
He got out of the car, stepped around to the trunk and removed his suitcase. As he stood there pretending he was searching the trunk for something else, he kept his eyes on the road he had just driven, watching for headlights. When he had satisfied himself that he had not been followed, he closed the trunk and walked into the long, low car rental building.
He had made the only deadline that mattered. The car rentals here would close ten minutes after the last incoming flight of the evening at eleven. He went to the desk and he knew the young man behind it was probably as pleased to see him as he looked. He was alon
e and undoubtedly had been for most of his shift.
Till showed his rental club card and a set of keys. “I rented a car in L.A., and I’d like to trade it for another model.”
The young man said, “What kind of car would you like, sir? Compact, full size, luxury?”
Till said, “What have you got that’s luxury? Cadillacs and Town Cars?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have any out there and ready to go?”
“Yes, I believe we do.”
“I’ll take a Cadillac.”
The young man tapped his computer keyboard and looked at the screen, quickly produced a rental form from a shelf under the counter and checked the lines Till was to sign, then went to a cabinet to get a set of keys. “Here you are, sir. A Cadillac DeVille. The third space from the right in the second row.”
“Thanks.” Till stepped outside. He went to the car quickly, tossed his suitcase into the trunk, and drove the Cadillac onto the road.
Till had been a private detective for seven years now, and a police officer for twenty before that, and he knew that this was the kind of job that required him to submerge, to go beneath the surface and emerge looking slightly different. He needed to be part of the background, undifferentiated and maybe a bit out of focus. But first, he had to give himself time to be sure nobody was watching.
On the way to Santa Barbara there had been lots of traffic, but no single vehicle had seemed to stay with him for long. Since he had left the freeway, there had been only empty highway behind him. It was disconcerting, because he had expected that there would be people watching him. Whoever had gotten Eric Fuller charged with Wendy Harper’s murder had forced Jack Till to the surface. From the moment when Till had put his name on the advertisements for Wendy, they should have been watching him.