by Lisa Unger
The man speaking at the podium stepped down off the stage and offered his hand to Marianna, who, when she stood, was a full head taller than Lydia expected. With skin the color of cream and green eyes that rivaled oceans and gems in their color, in their depth and glimmering facets, Marianna was a radiant beauty. Her hair, as orange as wires, was as thick and straight as unraveled bolts of velvet, and she moved with the grace and bearing of a dancer. She had the kind of beauty that brought men to their knees and women to plastic surgeons.
“My mother,” said Marianna in English, “put everyone before herself. She never thought of her own needs, only those of others.”
For a moment, Marianna seemed to be looking directly at Lydia with a kind of fire, a kind of anger in her eyes. It occurred to Lydia that Marianna might blame her for her mother’s death. But when, with as much subtlety as possible, Lydia took a step back so that she could glance behind her without making a show of it, she followed Marianna’s eyes to a small woman who seemed to hide in the shadows. She wore a simple black sleeveless dress, accented with an elegant strand of pearls. The brim on a tightly woven black straw hat and the thick black sunglasses she wore partially obscured her face, but it only took Lydia a second to recognize Jenna Quinn. Lydia tugged on Jeffrey’s sleeve, and he nodded his head once to acknowledge that he had already seen Jenna.
Marianna continued her eulogy now in Albanian, her tone shifting between sadness and anger. She had looked at Jenna only that once; the rest of the time, she kept her eyes down, trying to control the quiver in her voice. Lydia felt sad for her. She was so young; she still needed her mother. Coming on thirty-two, some days Lydia still needed hers. When Lydia’s mother had been alive, it was a daily battle over hair and clothes, makeup and boys, homework and television; it was probably the same for Marianna. But when her mother was gone, Lydia’s childhood departed, as well. Part of her realized that she’d never be anyone else’s baby, that she’d never share that intimate bond, no matter how much it felt like a shackle sometimes, with anyone else. Lydia wondered what had happened to that bond between Jenna and Tatiana, if it had ever existed, if it still did, and what could sunder it. Lydia watched Jenna out of the corner of her eye and was surprised to see her raise a Kleenex and dab underneath her glasses. There’s more to this than you imagine, said Lydia’s inner voice. When she looked again, Jenna Quinn was gone.
As the service ended, the men behind Sasa and Marianna surrounded the man and his niece, then whisked them out of the center, but not before Marianna and Lydia exchanged a glance. Lydia was quick to follow them out and saw Marianna and two of the men get into a limousine, which pulled away slowly. Lydia and Jeffrey hung back in the vestibule of the building, just inside the door, as the other mourners filed out.
Another black stretch limo pulled up; Sasa said a few words to the men who stood around him, tossing the man with the scar on his neck a set of keys. The man jogged off out of sight, and a few seconds later, the Porsche Boxster pulled around the corner and took off with a screech of tires, eliciting a shout from Sasa and laughter from the men. The limousine still waited as the remaining men piled into two black Land Rovers. The rear window of the limo rolled down, and a delicate hand emerged with a lighted cigarette. Sasa took the cigarette and dragged on it, reaching his other hand into the window as if he were stroking someone’s cheek, and a smile bloomed on his face. He dropped the cigarette into the street and opened the door. He stepped inside, seating himself opposite the woman. The same slender hand reached out to close the door, but not before Lydia caught a glimpse of the black brim of her hat. The limo followed one of the Land Rovers and was tailed by the other as they pulled away.
“Interesting,” said Jeffrey.
“Very.”
“I can’t talk to you, Lydia. Don’t put me in this position.”
“What’s the connection, Manny? Just tell me that.”
He’d agreed to meet them at the Cuban place where they’d eaten before, but now he looked like he regretted it. “I thought you said that you had information for me.”
“You don’t call that information? Did you know that Sasa Fitore and Jenna Quinn were connected?”
“Listen … I only came to tell you that the Tatiana Quinn investigation is closed. She’s officially been declared a runaway.”
“Then why are you even here? Why didn’t you tell me that on the phone?”
The detective just shrugged. He cared, and she could see it in him. He was still curious; it was killing him to walk away from a case that he knew was far from closed. But she could also see his resolve in the way his jaw was set, in the way he couldn’t look either of them in the eye. Lydia just shook her head. She couldn’t believe the change in him. She was disappointed, and when he looked at her, he saw it. He got up to leave.
“I don’t know why I came. It was a mistake.”
“What about Stephen Parker? Did you learn anything more that could help us from that?” asked Jeffrey, grasping at straws.
“Yeah. Keep your head out of the gator’s mouth.”
Jeffrey laughed without any humor, nodded, and took a sip of his café con leche.
“I hope you can sleep at night, Manny,” Lydia said quietly, but loudly enough that he could hear her where he stood at the door. It was a shitty thing to say; she knew he had no choice, but she was angry and frustrated. He turned and looked at her, his hand on the wall, as if he had to steady himself. He sighed.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years—Stephen Parker knew it, too—its not money but the love of money that’s the root of all evil. Look at the money; see where that takes you,” he said, and pushed the door open, causing a little bell to jingle. The sound of cars passing on wet streets carried into the restaurant.
“What?” Lydia asked.
“You heard me,” he said, and the door closed behind him.
Lydia and Jeffrey looked at each other.
“So, you’re the big-time PI,” Lydia said. “What do you make of that?”
“Craig said that Nathan Quinn’s business dealings were clean, as far as he could tell?”
“That’s what he said.”
He thought a second, staring into the golden sugar gathered at the bottom of his cup, swirling it as though trying to divine tea leaves.
“What about Jenna’s assets?”
“People from Albania don’t have assets. It’s the poorest country in Europe. She was a prostitute, to boot.”
“So says Nathan Quinn.” She raised her eyebrows. “Good point.”
“Do we have any way of finding out who she was before she married Quinn?”
“If they were married in the United States, Craig will be able to find their marriage license and get her maiden name. That would be a good start. I’ll have him check with INS, too.”
From a pay phone in the lobby of the Delano Hotel, Lydia called Craig and made him go outside and call her back from a pay phone on the street.
“You’re going all Sopranos on me,” said Craig when he finally rang back.
“There’s a lot of weird shit going on. Humor me.”
She told him what she wanted him to do.
“Once I have her name, what do you want me to look for?”
“Banking records, anything suspicious in her name—big withdrawals or deposits, personal accounts at offshore banks. Can you do that?”
He snorted his disdain. “Of course. How do you want me to reach you?”
“I’ll call you in a few hours.”
“I thought you guys were coming back tonight.”
“Possibly. We’ll see.”
She hung up the phone and rested her head on the cool plastic of the receiver for a second before turning and walking toward the bar, where Jeffrey waited. They had booked themselves on a flight leaving Miami at 8:10 that night. She had promised Jeffrey the previous night that if nothing popped by five o’clock, they’d pack and leave. It was just past two o’clock now. The connection between Jenna an
d Sasa was interesting, but it hadn’t brought them any closer to finding Tatiana. Not yet anyway.
She felt a twinge in her lower abdomen as she climbed onto the stool next to Jeffrey’s, reminding her that she had felt lousy since the attack of nausea the night before. She’d just been ignoring it … mind over illness. Jeffrey didn’t turn to look at her as she sat. His energy was off, his aura was dim, and he seemed tired. She counted on his good humor and strong spirit to balance out her obsessive-compulsive streak, her tendency toward depression. She realized suddenly that she wasn’t sure how to make him feel better when he was down.
“So let’s break this thing down and try to decide what our involvement should be,” he said.
He slid his drink off the cocktail napkin and pulled a Mont Blanc pen from his pocket. It reminded her of the pen that she had found back in New Mexico, a serial killer’s sick gift. She shivered as Jeffrey scribbled on the napkin.
“We have Tatiana, missing now two months. Valentina murdered. Stephen Parker murdered. Jenna Quinn fraternizing with a known mobster, also, coincidentally or not, the brother of her maid. Detective Ignacio, we’re imagining, threatened to the point that he wants nothing to do with us or the case he’s been sweating blood over for the last eight weeks. Who threatened him, we don’t know. Tatiana has been officially declared a runaway by the police. Feds crawling all over the place, claiming that our investigation is impeding theirs. And Nathan Quinn, one scary, powerful man.”
The result of his napkin scribbling looked like the work of a Cubist on acid.
“Let’s not forget about Sasa Fitore,” he continued. “Who is he? What is his connection to all of this?”
“What a mess,” said Lydia, feeling overwhelmed suddenly by all the elements of the case and how nothing seemed to fit, how there was no picture forming in the puzzle pieces.
“It stinks. This is too much fallout for the disappearance of one girl. You’re right: There’s definitely something ugly and dangerous swimming in the water. Tatiana is just the dorsal fin that broke the surface.”
“Very poetic,” she said, smiling. When he didn’t smile back, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “What’s up? I’m supposed to be the moody, distant one, haunted by the investigation. You’re supposed to be Mr. Just the Facts Ma’am, emotionally disinterested, the rock. We had our whole shtick worked out.”
He smiled, swiveled toward her on the stool, and placed a gentle hand on her leg. “I’m fine. Just beat. I want to head back to New York tonight. But I don’t feel right about leaving yet, and I know you don’t, either.”
She ordered a club soda from the bartender, hoping to soothe her restless stomach, and nibbled on some peanuts, enjoying their salty, greasy flavor.
“You’re the most important thing in my life,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “I trust you more than anyone. So if you tell me your instincts are screaming for us to leave and we’re staying because you know I want to, then we’re out of here.”
She meant it, though she knew he would never make her walk away from her work. But she would if he asked her to. Maybe she would come to resent it in time, but she’d do anything for him. Maybe that’s why it worked so well with them—because both of them would lay their lives down for the other, but neither would ever ask it.
He looked at her, waiting for her to lift her eyes. She was force, electric, uncontainable. If you got on her bad side, he couldn’t think of a person who stood a chance. But it was the tender places within her that had always brought him to his knees inside himself. He was moved, as he always was, by her depth and by her strength. He was amused by how she never ceased to surprise him. He put his hand on her shoulder and she turned her gaze on him and smiled. “Okay?” she asked.
“Okay,” he answered. “One more day.”
“Ms. Strong?” The maître d’ approached them. An older man with graying hair, laughing ice blue eyes, and weathered skin, he had the air of a retired sea captain, in spite of his tuxedo and impeccable manicure.
“Yes?”
“You have a phone call. Would you like to take it at the bar?”
She nodded and he produced a cordless handset. She thought it must be Craig, though it was fast even for him to have come up with anything. She felt Jeffrey’s curious eyes on her.
“Hello?”
“Is this Lydia Strong?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I have information for you.”
It was the voice of a young woman. She was whispering, and Lydia could hear music and raised, exuberant voices in the background. Lydia could hear the edge of fear and uncertainty and knew immediately she wasn’t dealing with a criminal. But she did have to wonder how the fuck everyone and their mother knew she and Jeffrey were staying at the Delano. As private investigators, they were going to have to learn in the future how to move about with a little more stealth.
“Relating to what?”
“Tatiana.”
“All right. What do you want?”
“I just need to see you. Alone.”
“When and where?”
“At the G-Spot … it’s a club on South Beach. Tonight after midnight.… I’ll find you.”
Bodies sweated and heaved, Crystal Method throbbed over the speakers, and a powerful strobe light cast the dance floor in a sickening flicker. The cacophony of raised voices shouting over the music added another layer to the dull roar. Lydia thought she was too old by about five years to be a patron of the G-Spot as she shoved her way through the crowd, looking for a woman she had never seen before.
The day had started out badly and looked about to get worse as Lydia shoved her way in toward the bar. Even in college, this type of atmosphere had never appealed to her; the loud music, crushing bodies, leering eyes had always filled her with a low-grade panic, a kind of psychological claustrophobia. As if the energy, a kind of yearning, grinding pulse, was too big, too dangerous to be contained within the walls and the alcohol- and drug-induced exuberance could quickly turn to brutality, to riot. She had always thought of clubs like this, with their mammoth open spaces and warehouse ceilings, their dark corners and deafening music, as a natural habitat for predators. They lurked here, waiting for victims: women too young, innocent, drunk, or high to recognize danger even as they sat in its crosshairs.
After shouting to the bald, excessively pierced and tattooed bartender that she wanted a martini, Lydia looked at her watch and saw that it was nearly midnight. They would probably have been in bed at home already if they had taken the flight they were booked on from Miami to New York earlier that evening. But instead, they were still here, Jeffrey back at the hotel, fuming, and Lydia fighting off the crush of people apparently desperate enough to riot for cocktails. When the bartender brought her the drink, Lydia handed him a twenty, yelled at him to keep the change, and pushed her way back from the bar. He smiled at her, and she saw a glimmer of silver on the tip of his tongue. Lydia distrusted people who pierced themselves in tender places.
She spied a quiet corner through the smoke as a gorgeous black couple—she all legs and cheekbones, lavender contact lenses; he with impossibly defined muscles, slicked-back hair, too much cologne—got up to dance and left vacant seats. She sat on the plush red velvet chair, which allowed her to face out at the club and be seen by people who entered. Her cocktail was terrible, obviously the cheapest-possible well vodka and not the Ketel One she’d ordered. She drank it, even though she knew a searing headache would be the price she’d pay for the calming effect it was having. She reached into the small velvet clutch she carried and removed the pack of Dunhill cigarettes she had purchased in the hotel lobby on her way here. If Jeffrey was trailing her, which was a safe bet, he was going to bitch endlessly. Lydia hadn’t smoked in over a year but, without a pang of guilt, she opened the pack, withdrew a cigarette, and lighted it with a tiny black lighter. It tasted good, very good, as she drew the smoke into her lungs like a long-lost lover into an embrace. Smoking was like that for her, like a
n abusive relationship that she didn’t leave for years because the sex was so good. She knew it would kill her someday, but when it was good, it was so good, she couldn’t have imagined living without it. And even after it was over, she always remembered the pleasure, always toyed in her mind with the idea of going back.
She caught her reflection in a mirrored wall. Her jet-black hair was slicked back and pulled into a tight ponytail at the base of her neck. The only makeup she wore was a deep red matte shade of lipstick from MAC. A Jean Paul Gaultier tight black choker-collar halter was low enough to show a little cleavage and hugged her hips over a pair of narrow black leather pants. A shamefully expensive pair of black midcalf boots looked fabulous but hurt like hell. Her reflection in the mirror as she sat waiting reminded her of the old days—days thankfully gone. The days before she had admitted to being in love with Jeffrey for most of her adult life. She’d had more meaningless, probably dangerous, one-night stands than a season of Sex and the City. It was a part of her life that she and Jeffrey never discussed. She wondered if it would make a difference if he knew that she’d only been trying to find a substitute for him. She decided it was a gamble she wasn’t willing to take. Besides, he’d never asked her how many men she’d been with before him. And it wasn’t information she was about to volunteer.
Somehow above the din of the club, she heard her cell phone chirp. As she reached into her bag, her fingers brushed the cool metal of her Glock. Jeffrey’s mobile number glowed on the phone’s digital display.
“Yes?”
“Did she show up yet?”
“No.”
“How long are you going to wait?”
“A little while. Where are you?”
“Back at the hotel.”
“Liar.”
“Give me a break. You didn’t seriously expect me to wait in our room while you ran off in the middle of the night to meet some mystery woman … at the G-Spot, of all places. I can’t believe you’re smoking.”