BLACK Is the New Black

by Russell Blake

  “Time which I’m confident you’ll find somewhere in your busy workday.”

  She took a sip of the chai. “Thanks. Although it still doesn’t make up for a big bonus.”

  “No, I suspect not. But it’s not a bad way to start the day, especially when the porky wrecking ball’s had his way with your visa application.”

  “I just don’t understand him sometimes.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to send you a message. I wonder what it could be? Oh, wait, I know. Maybe he doesn’t want you to go to Germany?”

  “I doubt that. It means shame on me for leaving important stuff where he can get to it when I’m not around.”

  “An equally plausible possibility, I’ll grant you.”

  “So how did your interview go yesterday? Or do you think of them as interrogations?”

  “Gentle questioning. Probing for the truth. As much art as science.”

  “Right. Did you learn anything?”

  “Only that being a supermodel might kill brain cells.”

  “There’s a newsflash.”

  Black told Roxie about Hailey. By the time he was done, Mugsy was snoring, the excitement of his morning too much.

  “Sounds like she’s whacked.”

  “That’s the technical term?”

  “Good as any. I mean, I don’t have anything for you on that. I’d have to see it for myself, but if she’s not on dope, maybe she should be.”

  “I know. I’m not sure it’s relevant to the investigation anyway.”

  “Maybe not, but what if she’s like that Bates character in Psycho? You know, pushed around the bend by controlling mom, so now she’s got the butcher knife out?”

  “Well, nobody’s been stabbed…”

  “Yet.”

  “I suppose it could be her behind this. But I doubt it. Call that a hunch.”

  “Yeah, because as I recall your hunches are so accurate.”

  “They’ve been described as laser-like.”

  “Maybe by the blind. I’d describe them as more flailing and off-base.”

  Black smiled. “Nice to see you back, Roxie. You had me worried with the whole scolding Mugsy thing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do anything but tell him he’s not fat. Which he is, by the way.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s just stocky.”

  “He’s got his own gravitational field. Like a furry dwarf star.”

  “Did you need something?”

  “No, I just thought I’d get in as much Roxie time as I could before you’re gone for good.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “Why are you F-ing with me this morning?”

  “Enjoy the chai,” Black said, and stepped into his office before closing the door behind him, leaving Roxie bewildered, he was sure.

  His coffee tasted all the richer for his interaction, and if she hadn’t been there, he’d probably have kissed Mugsy’s furry jowls for his fine work. He knew that celebrating Roxie’s setback was childish, but he couldn’t help it.

  He tapped at his computer and went through his emails, and when an hour had gone by, called Tasha at the office. The receptionist was cautious, and Black figured she recognized his voice from the calls for Demille. She seemed surprised when he asked to speak with Tasha.

  “I’m afraid she hasn’t made it in yet.”

  “She’s not answering her cell, either. I’ve been trying since yesterday. What time did she leave?”

  “Leave?” The receptionist hesitated. “She didn’t come in yesterday.”

  “She didn’t? Is that unusual?”

  “I don’t discuss staff members’ work schedules with strangers, sir,” she said, which told Black that yes, it was most unusual.

  “I’m pretty sure we won’t be strangers much longer. If Demille doesn’t return my call, I’ll be camping out at your desk for the duration. That’s a promise.”

  He hung up, tried Tasha’s cell phone again, and got nothing but voice mail. Butterflies flitted in his stomach as he recalled how much she’d drunk. If she’d tried to drive, she might have gotten into an accident…

  Black scanned the list of Demille’s staff and found Tasha’s name and home address. He jotted it down and walked out of his office. Roxie looked up at him from her screen, her customary disdain firmly in place.

  “I’m going out. Tasha’s not picking up.”

  “The Tasha who was being so helpful?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You headed over to their office?”

  “No, they haven’t seen her. I’m thinking I’ll stop by her place.”

  “I’ll hold down the fort. If any clients show up with mail sacks full of money, I’ll call you.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Try not to be too mad at Mugsy. He probably thought he could eat the paper.”

  “Oh, I’m already over that. It won’t take too long to do it all over again now that I know what goes on the lines.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  The wind had kicked up and was blowing harder, the gusts moaning through the overhead power lines as he walked to his car, hand on his hat to keep it from sailing to Maui. Tasha’s address was an easy twenty minutes from his office, and he told himself that he’d want someone to do the same thing he was about to do, in similar circumstances.

  When he pulled up to the high-rise condo building, an ambulance and a police car were out front, and his heart sank. He found a space and killed the engine, dreading what he knew he would hear but forcing himself to the front entrance anyway. The doorman looked up at him when he entered, and he approached the reception counter with an officious air.

  “I’m here about Tasha Pushkin.”

  The man’s face fell. “The officers are upstairs with the techs.”

  Black nodded knowledgeably. “What happened?” he asked.

  “We had a complaint. Water damage to the condo beneath hers. Apparently the overflow finally seeped through the floor early this morning. The owners called maintenance, and when they went in…she’d passed away a while before.”

  “All right. Which floor?”

  “Seventh.”

  Black strode to the elevator. “Always a damned shame.”

  “She was a very sweet lady.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be missed.”

  The elevator opened with a soft hiss and he stepped inside and stabbed the seven button. He was on thin ice, he knew, because impersonating a police officer was a felony, even if he hadn’t explicitly claimed to be one. That area of law was a gray one, but under the circumstances, one he preferred not to test. He watched as the floor indicator blinked through its count and formulated a plan for approaching the cops. When the door slid open he stepped out, wearing a look of concern he didn’t have to fake. At the end of the hall, one of the officers was talking to his partner, relaxed, enjoying the air conditioning while the techs went about their work.

  “I just heard. Oh, my God. When did it happen?” Black exclaimed as he approached.

  “Whoa, buddy. You can’t go in there,” the beefier of the pair warned, holding up a hand.

  “Of course not. I just heard. It’s…it’s terrible. She was too young.”

  “And you are?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. One of the neighbors. She was always so sweet. How could this happen?”

  “It’s more common than you’d imagine. A slip in the shower, hit your head, bam, you’re down. We see it all the time.”

  “At least she’s at peace now,” Black said. “It’s just such a shame she was taken from us.”

  “Yeah, well, you have to move along. Just go home. There’s nothing you or anyone can do for her now.”

  “I know you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just…I’m trying to process it all.”

  “Sorry, pal, but can you process somewhere else? Not to be rude or anything, but this is technically a crime scene…”

  “Crime! Do you suspect foul play?”

  “It’s just a term. Now go home. We’re done talking. Sorry for
your loss, but you need to leave.”

  Black nodded, pretending to be speechless. On the way downstairs, he dialed Stan’s cell number.

  “Colt.”

  “Stan. Black. Got a favor.”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve me getting out of my chair or lending you money, consider it done.”

  “I need you to get any info you can on a body at the following address.” Black gave him Tasha’s information.

  “What’s the deal on it?”

  “Sounds like she slipped in the shower while drunk and hit her head. Probably bled to death. Can’t have been pretty, if so, with warm water running on her for at least a day and a half…”

  “Did a William Holden, huh? I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “What about our boy Ernest? You kind of went dark on me about him.”

  “Sorry, man. I’ve been snowed under with this latest assignment. But I haven’t forgotten. I just need to clear the decks. I do think I’ve got a pretty decent idea for nailing him, though.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yup. I actually got the idea from something on the web. An article I saw. But you’ll probably have to shell out a few bucks to make it happen, and get some friendlies to play ball.”

  “What kind of money are we talking?”

  “Less than a grand.”

  “And you think it will work?”

  “If anything will.” Black told him what he had in mind.

  “Dude. That’s genius. Really. And I know just the guys to help me out on this. They owe me a favor or two. It’s perfect.”

  “Only if he’s faking. Otherwise you’ll be out a grand.”

  “Nah, no more than six hundred. I’ve got pull.”

  “I figured you might.”

  “When do you want to do this?”

  “Figure after I get some of my other stuff settled. Let’s talk in a few days, okay? Besides, for this to work, we need some pieces in place. I’ll get you a list.”

  “If you weren’t so ugly, I’d kiss you, my man.”

  “I’ll consider myself lucky, then. Call me when you hear something on Tasha.”

  “Roger that, buddy.”

  Black hung up and descended the front steps, ignoring the doorman, which seemed in character for the role he’d assumed. When he reached his car he stopped, keys in hand, something tugging at the periphery of his awareness. Tasha made the third suspicious death from the agency in the space of six weeks. True, she wasn’t a working model…but she was an integral part of the team, and had been one until only a few years ago. Was it possible that this was another killing, disguised as an accident? Or was that paranoia raising its ugly head?

  The hot wind tugged at his suit and threatened to claim his hat as its prize. The arid gusts smelled of the peculiar combination of aromas he associated with the desert. He squinted, popped his door open and slid behind the wheel, thinking about how Tasha had gone from being a sexy, vital force of nature to a corpse, and a vision of himself, drunk out of his mind, sprang to mind. While his natural suspicion was alert for foul play, as accidents went it wasn’t so far-fetched. All it took was one slip, one moment of carelessness, and game over. As the officer had said, it happened all the time.

  He rolled away from the curb, lost in thought, a feeling that he’d cheated fate in his gut – like it could just as easily have been him going for his final ride in the coroner’s van, the only variable an errant sliver of soap or a too-slick piece of marble. Black shivered in spite of the warm breeze and caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror – his face had lost all its color, and a few telltale beads of sweat dotted his forehead below his hat. He drove especially carefully back to the office, more than aware of how precarious all of humanity’s grip on life was, and how quickly it could all be over.

  As it now was for Tasha.

  Chapter 15

  Roxie’s voice called from her station as Black sat in his office, pushing paper from one end of his desk to the other.

  “Line one. It’s Gabriel Costa.”

  Black had called Gabriel the day prior, hoping to meet with him so he could grill him about his movements in Mexico. Now that he was on the line, Black realized that he hadn’t really come up with a convincing reason for the man to accommodate him. Left with nothing but the truth, he decided to try the direct approach.

  “Black.”

  “Mr. Black. Gabriel Costa returning your call.” Costa’s voice was silky smooth and refined. And something else. Worried?

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Costa. I appreciate it.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “My firm is doing some diligence work on the Demille merger, and I was hoping you could take a few minutes to meet with me.”

  “What do I have to do with the Demille merger? We’re competitors.”

  “Yes, but you worked with Demille for years, didn’t you? First as a model, then as an agent?”

  “Right…”

  “I’m interviewing all of Demille’s agents, present and former, for perspective.”

  “I don’t see what you hope to learn…”

  “I know, it all seems like a waste of time, but DNA’s paying me quite a bit to do this, so I’m going through the motions. Come on, Mr. Costa. Help me out. I only need twenty minutes of your time. I promise.”

  Gabriel hesitated, and a heavy silence hung on the line. Black listened intently for any tells – a slight increase in breathing rate, a gasp, a tremor in Costa’s voice.

  “When did you have in mind? I have a very full schedule, Mr. Black.”

  “I understand. I’m available all afternoon. Whenever you have time, I can be at your office…”

  “Today? Hmm. I don’t have anything at 2:00. I can slip you in then, if you’re here right on time.”

  “Thanks so much. I’ll be there early. Again, I appreciate it.”

  “You have my address?”

  “It’s on your website.”

  “Oh, right. Okay then.”

  Black punched the line off and frowned. “Roxie. What’s that stink?”

  “What stink?”

  “The odor like someone put dirty sweat socks in the microwave. That stink,” he said, rising and moving to his door.

  “Oh, you mean my lunch?” Roxie asked innocently as he stared her down. “It’s from the deli down the street. Bratwurst and sauerkraut. They eat a lot of it in Germany.”

  “It smells like pickled ass.”

  “What is it with you and smells in the office lately?”

  “You mean my complaining about that fat, flatulent eating machine? That’s completely justified. Some days I come out of my office and I feel like I need a gas mask.”

  “Well, anyway, I answered your question. That odor is lunch.”

  “How can you eat that?”

  “I’m getting the hang of it early. So I don’t go into culture shock when I get there.”

  “That’s admirable, Roxie, but you do know that rumor has it McDee’s has discovered the good German people, right? As in, there are fast food places all over Berlin? I’m pretty sure I saw that on the web.”

  “I want to have an authentic experience.”

  “Which, assuming you mean eating stuff that smells like fermented garbage, you most certainly will. You just don’t have to. More importantly, you especially don’t have to in the office. It’s unprofessional.”

  “But it would be okay if this was a sandwich?”

  Black glanced at her, wary of a trick in the question. “I suppose…”

  “But because it’s German, it’s unprofessional.”

  “No, Roxie, it’s because it smells like an open grave in here. That’s the unprofessional part.”

  “Why don’t you go back into your office, and five minutes from now, it will be gone? Then we can all go back to getting along, okay?” Roxie suggested, her tone dangerously quiet. Black knew that tone.

  “Fine. Only please don’t
bring your culinary experiments in anymore, all right? I know it’s a long shot that anyone’s going to show up, but if they did…”

  “I got it, boss. But the longer you go on, the longer until I can eat lunch, which means the more this is going to stink up the office.”

  As always, Roxie’s logic was unassailable.

  When she was done, he returned to the front office carrying his hat and jacket. “I’ve got an appointment at 2:00 with Gabriel Costa. I’m going to grab a bite, see him, and then I’ll probably be out the rest of the day. In case anyone calls.”

  She eyed him glumly and nodded. “That tasted pretty awful, by the way.”

  “I tried to warn you.”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to survive if that’s what the food’s like. Seriously.”

  “You can always cut steaks off Mugsy. That should last you a good month, if you go for seconds.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “I meant it figuratively.” Mugsy, hearing his name, cracked one eye open and glared at Black. “Besides, I think all anyone does there is drink beer and smoke.”

  “You know I hate beer. And I don’t smoke.”

  “Look on the bright side – you can always start.”

  “You want me to put your calls through to you? Assuming you get any? I mean, it’s theoretically possible you could get one.”

  “That would be great, Roxie.”

  Lunch was a turkey sandwich – a small concession to the health consciousness Sylvia had been guilt-tripping him into recently – at the sandwich shop on the next block. He had a heaping mouthful when his phone warbled, and he groped for it in his pocket as he struggled to chew and swallow before the caller gave up.

  “Black,” he managed, the syllable sounding more like ‘blech,’ pronounced by a mush-mouth with a speech impediment.

  “Black, this is Thomas Demille. You’ve left several messages for me?”

  “Yes. We spoke in Mexico. Daniel wanted us to get together as soon as possible so I can get some background from you on the incidents that are plaguing this transaction.”

  “I remember. I have time today. At 2:00. Can you make it?”

  Black cursed silently to himself. “I…I have an appointment at 2:00. Could we shoot for later?”