Dante entered Serafina’s through the back door, jerking up on the faulty handle Stella had been joking about a few days before. He pushed the button that triggered the lift in the alley, then lowered Greene into the basement. Dante yanked the man’s ID and rummaged the pockets. He found a revolver in an ankle holster, but nothing in the pants pockets, only a plastic Bic. It was possible he’d been mistaken about Greene’s identity, but the way the man had been hovering, he didn’t think so. It would be weeks before the new owners tackled the place, according to Stella. Weeks before anyone found the body. Likely the company would notice the disappearance of an agent before then. When they did, they would come after Dante harder than ever, but at least Marilyn was safe for the time being. He had bought some time. Now he dragged Greene’s body off the lift, farther into the cellar darkness, down to where the ceiling dropped and the outline of an old door showed in the trowel work on the concrete wall. Once upon a time, all the basements had been interconnected. A man could crawl through these tunnels. You could make wine in Stella’s basement and vanish up through a manhole cover onto Fresno Street. Nevertheless, all those doors were gone, the passageways sealed. Dante went back upstairs. He stripped off his bloody shirt, exchanging it for a clean one in the dishwasher’s closet. Then the next morning he took the stiletto and the shirt, and anything else that might incriminate him, and threw it in the Bay.
PART FIVE
TWENTY-ONE
David Lake’s house stood just off the crest on Sacramento Street, at the outer edges of Pacific Heights. A large house, impeccably kept, freshly painted—a Victorian in a block of Victorians. Lake stood in what earlier times had been called the parlor room, furnished now in a fashion that blended the modern and the antique. He dressed in a nondescript way, but with a tucked-in look—a sandy-haired man who might be called good-looking, though there was at the same time something a bit too pampered. It was tempting to dislike him, except there was a tinge of irony in his manner, as if he had been placed in this position by a hand other than his own. There was also wholesomeness, perhaps, a determination about his features that made one hesitate in such judgment.
Dante had not come alone. The person with him, Jake Cicero, was not someone familiar to Lake: a short man, mid-sixties, in a yellow polo and khaki slacks who looked as if he just stepped out of a tanning salon. David Lake studied them both, not turning away, but Dante’s appearance on Lake’s doorway, here with Cicero, had taken him aback. Lake and Dante had encountered each other before—on social occasions, on account of Marilyn—and there was an uneasiness between them. Then there was the matter of Dante’s trade, an ugly trade, and Lake’s suspicion that he himself had been studied and surveiled, his life imagined and re-created by this man in front of him.
But ultimately the reason behind his discomfort was more personal.
They were both in love with the same woman, David Lake and this man in front of him. This investigator with the smell of violence about him. With his long nose, his dark eyes. A face that seemed perpetually hidden in shadow.
Dante had met with Cicero earlier that same day, down at the office of Cicero Investigations. During that meeting, he had sketched out the situation for his boss, but the situation he described, and the reality, did not correspond in all their details. Jake Cicero did not need to know everything. Jake did not need to know, for example, about the dead man Dante had left on the storage room floor beneath the Serafina Café.
“I need to get Marilyn out of town.”
“She’s involved?”
“No, but I’m worried, just what these people will do.”
“What does she know?”
“Nothing. And it would be best to keep it that way. For her to leave—without knowing anything about this.”
“What would inspire that?”
“There’s a man, David Lake.”
“What about him?”
“He proposed to her.”
Cicero surveyed the street outside the office window. He did not press Dante, not right away. He knew something of Dante’s relationship with Marilyn. He also knew something of the time Dante had spent in New Orleans and the kind of associations lingering in his past.
“You want her to go away with this man, David Lake.”
“Yes.”
“Your cousin’s murder. There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“You won’t be aiding a suspect, if that’s what you are worried about.”
“What makes you think Marilyn will go along with this? You and she …”
“Things between us”—he hesitated—“I’ll take care of that. I’m more concerned, when she leaves, no one knows where she’s gone. Or with whom.”
“It will cost money.”
“I know.”
Dante put an envelope on the table, and inside the envelope there was a good deal of cash. Dante had worked for Cicero for a number of years. They were friends, after a fashion, but friendship went only so far. A different man might have made a show of not wanting the money, but Cicero was not that way. He’d been in the business for a long time.
“These people, they’re dangerous?”
“Yes,” said Dante.
“I went to the doctor’s office yesterday. For my yearly.”
Cicero had used to be pretty slack about his health, but he’d grown more diligent lately, since marrying Louisa.
“What’s the verdict?”
“I could live another million years, a heart like mine. So long as I don’t fall off a cliff.”
Behind Cicero, bocce trophies lined the wall, but Cicero did not play bocce much anymore. It was an old man’s sport. His new wife was some twenty years younger than himself, and he had instead taken on a program to keep up with her.
Tennis in the mornings. Diet. A little bit of Grecian Formula for the hair.
Sharper clothes.
A yellow polo open at the collar and a Rolex watch.
Dockers and black loafers, tasseled.
“How is Louisa?”
“She’s fine.” Cicero thumbed through the cash with an expression of a man caught between two worlds. He was not one to embark on idiot adventures, but on the other hand, Louisa had expensive tastes. Cicero was a fool sometimes, an old fool, but he enjoyed his life.
“This Lake, he’s a wealthy man?”
“Yes,” said Dante.
Cicero nodded his approval, then turned back to the window, eyeballing the passersby. There weren’t any.
“Business is slow?”
“Got a call late yesterday. From a divorcée.”
“Same one who was outside the other day, checking our directory?”
“Haven’t met her yet. She and her new boyfriend—according to her, the ex-husband is sleeping with the guy’s wife.”
“It takes all kinds.”
“Yeah.” He gave Dante a look. “I guess it does.”
TWENTY-TWO
Later, Cicero and Dante had taken the drive over to the Victorian in the Heights, and now they stood in the man’s living room. Over the past year, Dante had followed Lake on more than one occasion. He had seen Lake and Marilyn walking together and seen, too, the relaxed pace, the easy banter. Dante wanted to tell himself there was no spark between Lake and Marilyn, that this would fade, but he’d seen then—as he saw now—the look in the man’s blue eyes.
“This concerns Marilyn?”
“As I explained,” said Cicero. “It’s a touchy situation.”
So far, Dante had let Cicero do the talking. It was possible he could have handled arrangements on his own, but Cicero had a gift that he did not have—a likable smile, a shrug of the shoulders. He wanted Cicero here to diffuse things if the conversation went wrong. Even with Cicero, he worried how Lake might react, especially now, as he described his cousin’s death.
“But what does that have to do with me?”
“It’s not you we’re worried about,” said Dante. “It’s Marilyn.”
“The killer’s s
till out there,” said Cicero.
“I don’t understand.”
Dante could see Lake vacillating, wondering if he had made a mistake, letting them into his house.
“You have to take her out of town,” said Dante. “The two of you should go off, immediately.”
“We don’t mean to alarm you,” said Cicero.
“That’s exactly what you mean to do.”
“You’re in love with this woman?”
“I don’t see how this is any of your business.”
“I’ve known Marilyn for a long time.” Dante saw the flash in the other man’s eyes, but he went on regardless. “I know you proposed to her,” he said, “I know that.” He lowered his voice, as if speaking to a friend, but he and Lake, they were not friends. “She told me, at my apartment. Not so long ago.” He didn’t need to mention the apartment, but he had wanted to see the small quiver as Lake imagined the two of them, their shadows intertwined in the little place on Fresno Street. The man’s uneasiness gave him some small satisfaction, but whatever pleasure Dante took, at the same time, he knew Marilyn had spent time here, in Lake’s house. Walking barefoot in her morning clothes along this carpet, up those stairs.
“Just listen,” Cicero said. “Then do what you think best.”
Dante let Cicero do the talking. It was the same story Dante had told Cicero. Not the truth exactly, but close enough. There were debts, gambling debts. The people who killed his cousin wanted their money, and they had made threats if Dante did not cover those debts. They would go after people close to Dante.
“What about the authorities?”
“The authorities couldn’t protect my cousin,” Dante said. “They won’t be able to protect her.”
“I don’t like this.”
“We are going to need money,” Cicero said.
Dante glanced at Jake. This hadn’t been part of the plan. Dante had already put the cash on the table, but apparently Cicero wasn’t satisfied. Dante knew he shouldn’t be surprised, because he’d seen it before, the way Cicero worked a case from both sides, putting the touch on clients at either end.
“You want money, to pay these people off? To get rid of gambling debts?” asked Lake. “Is that why you are coming to me?”
“There are arrangements that need to be made.”
“This is blackmail.”
“The first thing you need to do is get on your knees and propose,” Cicero said. “Then climb on that private jet of yours and fly away. Meantime …”
“What?”
“You don’t want anyone following. Do you?”
This was the moment, Dante thought. David Lake made a move as if to get out of his seat, as if to end the conversation. Dante did not want him to do this. Because if Lake rose, he would have to stand up and block his way. He would have to find another means of persuasion. He recalled the dead man in the alley and the pleasure he had taken, despite himself, driving the knife into his heart.
“You have to take her away,” said Dante.
This next part, too, he left to Jake. The smooth talk, the details of the coming excursion. Jake in his polo shirt and his chinos. Tanned Jake. Golden-tongued Jake. Who made the whole idea seem like a vacation. Who described a little cottage in a faraway place. A plaza with cobbled stones. A chapel.
“Take her on her honeymoon. A long honeymoon. By the time you get back, all this will be over. Meantime, again, there are expenses on my end,” Cicero said, “and I will need advance payment.”
“What kind of expenses?”
“No one can know that Marilyn has gone off with you. We need to make it look as if she is not with you, but somewhere else. The details, the particulars, I can inform you, if you’d like. Though honestly, it would be better for you to stay in the dark.”
David Lake sat with his hands between his legs. He had inherited his parents’ money, and then inherited his ex-wife’s money when she died. Now Marilyn was being given to him, too. Perhaps he didn’t want her this way, but ultimately it didn’t matter what he wanted. He seemed to understand this now. There was a hitch, though, Dante knew, and it was not the money. She had not accepted his proposal.
“She loves you.” Dante saw the mixed emotions on the man’s face, wanting the knowledge, wanting to hear it—but not from Dante. “The thing between me and her, it’s just something that happens in the dark.”
Lake looked at him with disdain, and Dante realized his mistake, he had pushed it too far. Lake lowered his eyes and said nothing. You should tell me to fuck off, Dante thought. You should be at my throat, a comment like that, with Cicero trying to pull you off. You should be pushing me against the wall, the way I pushed that man in the alley. But Lake didn’t do any of these things. A better man for it. Maybe.
“How do I know, soon as we’re back in town, this won’t start all over?”
Later this afternoon, Dante was supposed to meet with Marilyn, out at the house in Marin. He would prove himself then. He would make sure it was over—but he didn’t need to tell this to Lake.
“You’ll be married.”
“You’ll be back, won’t you? For more money.”
“I don’t want your money,” said Dante.
Cicero held up his hand. “Let’s make it simple. One payment, in advance. Cash. For operational expenses.” Cicero smiled—his old-man smile, cherubic, his eyes sparkling—but there was a hardness there, a seriousness, and it was clear he wasn’t going to let the matter go.
“Give Jake what he needs,” said Dante. “Just do as he says. And let’s not talk about this anymore.”
Dante and Jake Cicero were in the car now, headed up over Franklin toward the Broadway Tunnel.
“Is he going to do it?’
“I think so.”
“He won’t go to the cops?”
“I doubt it.”
“Are you sure you can do this?”
“What?”
“Let go of her?”
Dante glanced into the mirror. A car had pulled up behind him. It followed for a few blocks, dropped off. Then there was another car.
Just cars …
He studied them anyway.
“About the money, the way you pressed him?”
“It’s business.”
“You could have warned me.”
“Marriage is expensive,” said Cicero.
Dante knew how it was with Jake and his wife. Louisa liked to shop, and Jake liked to go with her, watching her sift through the racks, the high-end stores, trying on one outfit after another. He would touch the clothes before she put them on, the pleated skirts, the buttons, the blouses, and then she would model for him, turning in front of the mirror as he sat in one of those soft chairs, listening to the store music, while a clerk hovered nearby, expensively dressed, pearls about her neck, smelling of the store’s perfume. The cost of these outings, and others like them, all the things Lousia liked to do, they added up.
“There’s this jacket. Coco Chanel.”
“Does she look good in it?”
“Real good. I’ll have to call the clerk soon as I get to the office, put it on hold. But I want you to tell me, who are we dealing with here?”
“It’s not your concern.”
“It might be.”
“Make the arrangements. Do it like we discussed.”
They had already been through this, and there was no reason to go through it again. Cicero knew a young woman, a criminal investigator who used to work vice and liked to put herself out there. Do her hair, dress her in the right clothes, and she could pass for Marilyn, once the real Marilyn was gone.
A decoy.
It was a touchy business, but Dante didn’t need her long. Then she, too, could be on her way.
Dante pulled the car to the curb. Cicero’s office was at the top of the hill, but he wanted to be sure no one had followed.
“So you going to make me walk?”
“It’s better.”
“Yeah, I need the exercise.”
“I’m already gone,” Jake said, but he didn’t move. “What if they figure it out? What if they track me down?” A shadow crossed the old man’s face. Earlier, Cicero’s concerns had been brushed aside by the man’s own bravado, by the pile of cash on the table, by the excitement of the job.
“They might insist that I tell them where she is. Or they might want you,” said Cicero. Then the smile was back, creasing his leathered cheeks. “They might offer money if I let them know.”
“You’ve got your money.”
Cicero laughed. The old Italian laugh. The laugh of a million paesans. His smell filled the car. The smell of tobacco and whiskey and shaving cream, of cologne under the arms, all over his gray-haired chest.
Cicero the wise. Cicero the idiot. Cicero, the old fool, in love with his young wife.
“Louisa will look good in the jacket.”
“I miss the bocce sometimes. Rolling the ball.”
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