Claudine

by Barbara Palmer

  “Forgive me,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “You excite me too much.”

  He pushed her back upon the bed, traced the flat of her belly with his palm, then grasped her hips and turned her over. He kneed her thighs to spread them. He gazed at her behind, still relaxed and open from the dildo. He inserted the tip of his cock into her rear, entering carefully. He filled her more than the dildo had and she liked the feeling of being stretched to her limit. He began a gentle rhythm, which she matched. It grew more intense. Her breasts swung back and forth with their thrusting and he captured them in his graceful hands, pinching them hard. Her ass clenched and he came fast, a hot jet of semen spraying into her, the musky odor of their sweat and sex hanging in the air. He lay on top of her until his penis went soft and slid out.

  He insisted they both wash. The en suite had two sinks and he was careful not to touch the soap or towels she used. After a while, they went another round but he didn’t go near her pussy. He only wanted her ass.

  On the way back to the quay, the air had turned cool, and spray from the launch churning through the waves misted over Maria and Andrei sitting in the boat’s rear seat.

  “You cold?” Andrei asked, seeing her shiver. He shrugged his jacket off and draped it around her shoulders. She leaned into him, welcoming his body warmth. French laws forbade carrying weapons, so the calf leather shoulder holster he usually wore was missing.

  “You must feel a bit naked without your gun,” she said.

  “Not really.” He patted his ankle and gave her a little smile.

  “Listen. Did you see the black yacht that crossed our path earlier this evening?”

  “Yeah. Couldn’t get a decent look at the guy with the binoculars, though; it was too dark.”

  “He seemed . . . threatening, somehow. Creepy. Maybe, though, he was just an innocent sightseer.”

  “That’s the problem. You never know. You begin to think everyone’s suspicious. It’s part of a stalker’s game; they count on that to ratchet up your fear.”

  The weight of all the tension she’d been coping with squeezed her like a vise. “I can’t go on like this, Andrei.”

  For a moment he didn’t answer but gazed at the slate black water, indistinguishable from the night sky. “I don’t think we’ll have to wait much longer. There’ll be an end point and it’s probably coming soon.”

  They were nearing the dock now and before she could reply, Maria spotted the black boat at anchor, the motor silent, all its lights off. The occupants were either asleep or in town for a night of reveling. “Do you have any idea who owns that boat?” She spoke to the crew member at the wheel.

  He glanced at it quickly and raised his voice over the roar of the motor. “Yes, a friend of mine. I work here all the time. Fill in as extra staff if they need it when the big yachts come in. That one’s rented to an American for the festival.”

  “What’s the American’s name—do you know?” Andrei asked sharply.

  “Bill Smith.” The man’s lips spread in a wide grin. “Not his real one, I think, eh? He’s gone now, tonight was his last night. He paid my friend much cash for that boat. More than needed.” He twirled his finger and pointed it at his head. “Stupid. Money here is like the air. Everyone breathing it in like they can’t get enough of it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Andrei did all he could think of to unearth any scrap of information about the American who had rented the black yacht. He checked hotel registers, even arranged for a look at the yacht itself. In the end, he turned up nothing.

  They spent the day in Cannes and flew to New York that evening. Back in the city, another avenue of exploration furnished partial results. Jewel’s e-mail messages. One of Andrei’s contacts hacked Jewel’s personal e-mail and he sat at Maria’s kitchen banquette, sifting through her messages and comparing the names and e-mail addresses to Maria’s client list.

  The name of one man stood out because it matched a former client—Jewel’s shrink. Maria had spent an evening with him two years ago at his office in Brooklyn. He’d asked her to role-play as a pretend patient, a proposal that did not bode well for the integrity of his practice. He’d screwed her on his couch after analyzing her dreams. Otherwise, she could recall nothing abnormal; she’d had no idea at the time that he was Jewel’s doctor. Andrei showed her a picture of the psychiatrist, a distinguished-looking man with fashionable glasses and a broad face. She only vaguely recognized him. He ranked high as a suspect. Of all the people Jewel may have discussed Maria’s Romanian origins with, it was a slam dunk she’d told her shrink.

  “The psychiatrist has a perfectly clean record,” Andrei said. “A few parking tickets, a DUI eons ago—that’s all. If he’s your stalker, I’d expect some kind of assault charge, or a restraining order. Something that pointed to violence in his past.”

  “That just means he hasn’t been caught yet,” Maria argued. “I don’t know. The shrink probably booked you because he heard about you from your adoptive mother, but that doesn’t mean he’s a predator.” Andrei paused. “Two years is a long time. That argues against him. He spends one night with you and waits two years to start stalking you? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “We should be looking at recent clients, then? Over the last couple of months?”

  “Definitely. Although another alternative is Jewel’s husband—Milne, you said his name was? Maybe he told someone. He knew about your background too—didn’t he?”

  “I can’t see Milne saying anything. It’s just not his style. Maybe Jewel’s hairdresser? Aren’t they the ones we women are supposed to confess to?”

  Andrei checked her contacts again. “Out of luck there. It’s a woman.”

  “Don’t see why that rules her out, necessarily.” Even as she spoke, Maria knew instinctively how wrong she was. While a hairdresser could have passed along the knowledge, a male was behind this. No question. She racked her brain for a face, a conversation, a gut feeling—anything to point the way to her stalker. But he was like a snake in a hole, curled into a dark channel, marking time among a bed of brittle roots, readying himself to strike at a moment of his own choosing. She looked over to where Andrei sat, scrolling through the file on his phone. He glanced up from the screen.

  “Maria, did you get under anyone’s skin? Upset one of your clients? Maybe something happened you’re reluctant to tell me about?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just saying these threats feel like some kind of payback; they’re very personal. If you’re holding anything back from me—don’t. If you believe you know who it is, tell me. I know people who will take care of the guy permanently and discreetly.”

  Maria heaved a sigh. “I don’t keep any secrets from you, Andrei. If I even suspected who was doing this, who hurt Lillian, I’d tell you.”

  He nodded and turned back to his phone, flipped to his own messages and ran his eye down the list. He frowned. “Oh shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “My contact says Trainor’s pulling back on his investigation. So far he’s got nothing. They believe the Romanian hooker was a one-off. As in not related to any other attacks.”

  “That’s so stupid,” Maria cried.

  “Yeah. But predictable. She was illegal. If they couldn’t wrap it up fast, she was bound to drop further down on the priority list.”

  “Is he really pulling back or just changing his focus?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told you. He and da Silva spent most of the time questioning me about my business. I’m afraid he’s going to try to nail me.”

  “He has to have a reason. He can’t just fabricate a case and tell his superiors he wants to work on it. Besides, he’s homicide, not vice. You can be sure his platter’s already more than full.”

  Maria lowered her head. “Maybe the reason is you.”

  Andrei got up, put his hand underneath her chin and tilted her head, forcing her to look at him. Her skin tingled at the feel of
his fingers. She had a sudden impulse to wrap her arms around him, pull him close and kiss him. Instead she turned her face away.

  “Hey. I can see how upset you are. Now tell me what this is all about.”

  She avoided his eyes, embarrassed by her feelings. “I never inquired too much about what you did before you started working for me. I figured your past was your business and you’d tell me about it if there was any need. Trainor said you were tied up with organized crime. I pretended to be shocked. Obviously, I knew because of the Atlantic City party where we met that you had some association with the Russian mob. Trainor said you were one of their right-hand men. Is that true?”

  Andrei laughed. “And you’re worried I was some kind of crime kingpin? Couldn’t have been a very good one. I’d be a rich man otherwise.”

  “He specifically mentioned the sex trade.”

  “That’s ridiculous and you know it.”

  She could tell Andrei’s temper rose at the last remark but he wouldn’t want to confess to that, would he? And yet he’d been able to find out about the Romanian prostitute pretty fast. “So there’s no basis to it?”

  “I can see where his suspicions came from,” Andrei said. “My parents escaped from Moscow and fled to New York right after their marriage. A year later my dad brought his kid brother over. They didn’t have two cents to rub together. My parents chose the high road, spent their life working seven days a week, running a restaurant. They never made a lot of money. My uncle saw how much they sweated for a few dollars and took a different turn in the road. He did get involved but not with prostitution.”

  “So you’re saying Trainor just mixed the two of you up?”

  “Not exactly. I was dead broke when I graduated from college. So I worked for him. No guy can grow up in Brighton Beach and be totally immune to it, you know. My uncle ran an oil distribution company, one of his legitimate enterprises. I looked after the day-to-day business for him. He was caught using the firm for tax evasion schemes. That’s when I got out.”

  “Oh. Trainor did get it wrong, then.”

  Andrei grinned. “Do I still have my job?” He slipped his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. Maria found the closeness disconcerting. She liked the feel of his body against hers and wanted to respond, wanted to feel his hands on her, but a couple of months ago he would never have taken the liberty.

  She picked up her tablet, glad of an excuse to shift away. “Of course. Speaking of work, time for me to hit the books.”

  Later in the afternoon, Lillian peeked into the study. “I’m leaving for my cousin’s now.” She took a long look around as if it would be the last time and gripped Maria in a tight hug. “The doctor says my hand is getting better fast. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  She pressed her cheek to Lillian’s. “Everything will be fine,” she said cheerfully. “And you’re not to worry. Just get better.”

  “Andrei’s driving me to Jersey City. He said to tell you, after that he’s going back to his place to get some sleep. He’ll return this evening.”

  Maria already knew he intended to keep watch on her through the night. Lillian turned to go. She watched her assistant’s small wiry figure disappear down the hallway, her swinging black hair, her hasty, energetic steps. She heard Lillian say something and Andrei answer in his deep tones. The front door opened and clicked shut. The apartment, wrapped in silence now, felt as forlorn as a ghost town with nothing left but empty houses and sad memories.

  Her reaction to Andrei still disturbed her. The attack on Lillian and the threats had shaken her up a lot; on top of that, there was the police interview, and the sight of the black boat in Cannes. She needed Andrei’s shoulder to lean on right now—which was probably the source of these unwelcome feelings. She dropped her head in her hands. The sight of his lean, brown body in Cannes, his arm around her in the boat, imagining what he’d be like in bed. The fantasies were starting to come unbidden and embarrassingly often. The body had a funny way of playing tricks on you. On rare occasions she’d been tempted by similar feelings for a client but those had passed quickly enough. She expected they would with Andrei too.

  Maria gave herself a shake, made an effort to tidy up the lopsided stacks of books and papers on her desk, then gave up. She went to the fridge to get a Coke, thought better of it, grabbed a bottle of wine and poured herself a tumbler full. Downed it and poured a second.

  For a short time she could pinch-hit without Lillian, but that was just putting off the inevitable. Nor could Andrei go without sleep night after night waiting for a phantom to materialize into a flesh-and-blood enemy. She’d have to move to a hotel or rent a full-service apartment. But whatever changes she made, they’d be nothing more than plugs in an ever-widening hole. The deluge would soon overcome her. Her stalker would destroy every last scrap of her security.

  Her mind began to spin. She took a deep breath and tried to think positively. She had more than enough money to live on if she sold her place, and her studies would eventually lead to a new career. Reed promised to pave the way for her—what could be easier? Changes were good, kept you sharp, offered silver linings, new horizons. Loss was just part of life, she told herself, get used to it. The alcohol hit her empty stomach and sped into her bloodstream. When did I start drinking so much? she wondered. She ignored the voice in her head and got up to pour another. She had to lean on the table until a spell of wooziness passed.

  Two weeks passed uneventfully and Maria dared to hope her stalker had lost interest, until one day when her phone trilled from the study. It cut out before she could reach it. She touched the screen and it brightened into a rectangle of light. New text, it said. Andrei, she thought hopefully. She hit the message button.

  I wish to hire your services—you will be the only star and I, the only audience. It will begin on Roosevelt Avenue, the club district. Something different. A street pantomime, if you will. Dress for it like a whore. I want you to fit in. That shouldn’t be hard. I’ll be wearing a red Latin Kings shirt. Follow me for a time you won’t forget.

  CHAPTER 18

  The ring of her cell phone broke the awful silence. Andrei was on the line. “Have you read it yet?” he asked.

  “I just did.”

  “Wait, there’s more. There’s a second message with specific instructions about when and where to meet up. Tomorrow night at nine P.M. It’s him, of course. I’m sure of it.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “When’s the last time a client insulted you while soliciting your services?”

  “Good point. Did you get a chance to check his credentials yet?”

  “Yes. I’m just pulling them up now. Calls himself Jeff Thorpe. Claims to own an Atlanta real estate firm and is up here on business. It’s a shell company. Nothing but air. And since he didn’t try to disguise that fact, he wants you to know it’s him.” Andrei hesitated. “Maria, we should pass this on to Trainor. Let the police track this guy.”

  “No! Trainor already suspects what I do, and he won’t look the other way when we give him proof. I’ll end up in jail. They’ll seize all my assets too and claim they’re proceeds of a criminal enterprise. It’s out of the question.”

  “The police cooperate all the time with people on the shady side of legal to snag a bigger fish.”

  “Andrei. What if they think I’m the bigger fish? Or my clients? I can’t risk that.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “I don’t know. Let me think about it. In the meantime, process the fee and tell Thorpe I accept.”

  Maria clicked off before Andrei could argue with her. She dashed off a text to him, repeating what she’d just said, went back into the kitchen and grabbed the wine bottle. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the stopper and poured. She missed the glass; wine spilled onto a pile of envelopes on the counter. “Shit,” she cried; her nerves felt so raw they practically bled.

  She picked up the dripping envelopes and held them over the sink. Bills and f
lyers mostly. At the bottom, a bubble-wrapped package from an online book dealer. She hadn’t ordered any books lately. The envelope’s flap had been opened and then taped closed again. She tore it and pulled out the contents. A copy of Justine by de Sade.

  How would her stalker know she had any interest in the book? Her thesis wasn’t close to being published. Then Maria recalled she’d written a short article about Justine for an academic journal last summer. If he’d Googled “Maria Lantos” and “Yale,” he would have found it easily enough.

  Something had been used as a bookmark to divide the pages about three quarters of the way in. When she flipped to it, she found a miniature cropped version of the photo taken while she was dancing at Show World Live! It was the same one pasted on the bathroom mirror of her San Francisco hotel room. The scrawl at the bottom read: This awaits you. The passage was one of the most gruesome in de Sade’s novel. She cringed at the description of the whippings the characters—young girls—endured, on their breasts and bottoms.

  Reading the passage made up her mind. In a way she welcomed what was to come tomorrow evening. Warring with a ghost sapped her energy. She needed to confront the real man and destroy him.

  CHAPTER 19

  BOROUGH OF QUEENS, CORONA NEIGHBORHOOD, NEW YORK

  Claudine leaned into the mirror at her dressing table to put the finishing touches on her makeup. For the hundredth time she wished Lillian were here. She’d had to remove and reapply her cosmetics twice and still couldn’t get it right. Pale foundation, nude lipstick, heavy black eyeliner and brows, a kind of Amy Winehouse look without the dark sloe eyes. She eventually gave up on the colored contacts because she needed Lillian’s help to put them in. She’d spent the afternoon at the spa getting her nails done. Tuxedo black two-inch acrylics, closer to claws than nails, like those in the pictures of old Chinese empresses. She’d also had a black wig fitted; a blunt-cut bob with a fringe of bangs, accented with a streak of magenta.