by Pascal Scott
After checking into the upscale hotel on West Peachtree Street, Zoe ordered a Caesar salad and a bottle of California Pinot Grigio from room service. It was Rich who had booked the Michelangelo for her; Zoe would have tried to economize for the company. No, clearly Rich was showing his gratitude for Zoe finally joining the PI team. After dinner, she showered in the marbled bathroom before wrapping herself in the soft, thick robe provided by the hotel. Lying on the king bed, she reviewed her case notes.
The first thing on the next day’s schedule was a meeting with James Washington, the Atlanta police detective who was now the husband of Dory’s friend. Zoe glanced at the bedside clock. It wasn’t quite 8:00 p.m. Stone would be still at work. Zoe would wait an hour or two and then call.
She fell asleep waiting. She slept deeply, straight through the night. She never called.
Chapter Thirty-eight
“Detective Washington?”
“You found him.”
Detective Washington looked up from the paperwork on his cluttered desk. When he saw who was asking, he stood immediately. In his pressed white shirt, black tie, black slacks, and black Oxfords, Detective Washington looked like a walking recruitment poster for the Atlanta PD. At a solid six-two, he had a stiffness of bearing and a no-nonsense attitude that suggested a military background and a compatibility with his present line of work.
“I’m Zoe Martinelli. We spoke briefly on the phone.”
“Right.”
They shook hands. He appraised her quickly and, Zoe noticed, appreciatively before his gaze darted to the pile of white binders on the chair by his desk, the one meant for visitors.
“Sorry about the mess.”
He collected the binders in his arms and looked around, in what Zoe thought was a sort of helpless male way, before depositing them in a heap on the floor. He made a small effort to dust off the seat of the visitor’s chair with his hand. Zoe sat down. He did the same.
“My wife asked me to meet with you, but she didn’t give me the particulars. So, Ms. Martinelli, how can I assist you today?”
Zoe opened her handbag and removed the graduation photo of the four friends from Cowell Hall. Setting it on the detective’s desk, Zoe tapped the face of Elizabeth.
“This girl,” Zoe said. “Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. I’m looking for her in connection with the death of her college roommate. This girl.”
Zoe tapped Emily. “Emily Bryson.”
Detective Washington lifted the photograph and examined it. “Where was this taken?”
“The University of California at Santa Cruz.”
“You have reason to believe that Ms. Bundy is in Atlanta?”
“She is. She registered for classes at Candler University.”
“How did she die? Emily Bryson, that was her name?”
“Yes, Emily Bryson. Emily’s body was found on a beach eighteen miles south of the Golden Gate Bridge last October. The San Francisco PD called it a suicide.”
“What a waste. I have a daughter just a little younger than these girls.”
Zoe noticed a framed photograph of a pretty teenager. She had her father’s caramel skin and bright green eyes.
“She’s beautiful.”
Detective Washington glanced at the photograph. “Tanika,” he said. “The only good thing that came out of my first marriage.”
His expression softened, but just for a moment.
“You don’t believe it was suicide?” he asked, returning to the matter at hand.
“I don’t. I think Emily was murdered.”
“What makes you think she was murdered?”
“My working theory is that Elizabeth Taylor Bundy assumed Emily Bryson’s identity after college. By then, Emily had moved out of the country and broken off communication with her family in Indiana. Elizabeth stole Emily’s identity and lived for two years in San Francisco as Emily Bryson. I believe that Emily returned to California at some time and somehow discovered the fraud. She confronted Elizabeth, and that’s how her body ended up on a beach in Pacifica.”
He considered. “You said, ‘my working theory.’ You have any proof?”
“No,” Zoe admitted.
“Why would she do that? Steal this other girl’s identity?”
“Well, it’s complicated. Money, for one thing. Emily’s father had the trustees continue sending monthly checks to the address in San Francisco that Elizabeth gave him. But there were psychological reasons having to do with the mental makeup of Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. As I say, it’s complicated. If you’ve got the time, I could say more.”
“I wish I did. But you know how it is.”
His hand swept over his desk, strewn with papers.
“Of course,” Zoe said.
He nodded thoughtfully. “What is it you’re hoping to get from me?”
Zoe picked up the photograph and returned it to her handbag. “Insurance.”
She pulled a business card from her wallet and set it on the desk. “If anything happens to me, look at Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. She’s a doctoral student in the women studies program at Candler University. I have her address.”
Zoe flipped the business card and scribbled Elizabeth’s address. “I’m staying at the Michelangelo,” Zoe added.
She wrote the phone number of the hotel and her room. “I just want someone local to know what I’m doing in case something goes wrong.”
Detective Washington picked up the business card and tapped it on his desk, a habit of the restrained restlessness Zoe had often observed in police officers and PIs. She rose. Detective Washington stood, as well. They shook hands once more.
“Thank you for your time, Detective. And thank your wife for me.”
“I will do that,” he said. “Good luck with your investigation, Ms. Martinelli. Be safe.”
****
Elizabeth’s apartment was in Virginia-Highland, a transitioning, in-town neighborhood near the Centers for Disease Control and Candler University. Zoe found a parking space across the street from a two-story brick building that the owners had painted gray, giving it an institutional look. Elizabeth’s apartment was 1D. Zoe shut off the engine of her rental car and removed a Sony compact tape recorder from her handbag. That was Rich’s idea. If she was going pro, she would have to start acting like a pro. Taping was more reliable than taking notes, he told her, giving her one of the office’s spares.
Out of habit, Zoe double-checked her bag. Yes, her Smith and Wesson thirty-eight revolver was right where it was supposed to be. Like a good citizen, Zoe had followed the rules of flying with firearms, packing the handgun in a hard, locked case; including it in her checked baggage; and declaring it at check-in. California was one of the toughest places to get a concealed carry license, but Zoe had one for her job. Rich and the guys reminisced nostalgically about the old days, when you could carry a gun on an airplane, and no one cared. The seventies, they said. Zoe had been a teenager.
Zoe pressed the button on the Sony and began dictating.
“This is Zoe Martinelli, working the case of Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. The date is Wednesday, July 11, 1990; the time is 11:47 a.m. I am commencing surveillance on 1260 Briarcliff Road in Atlanta, Georgia.”
She shut off the tape recorder and picked up her Canon Rebel from the passenger seat. Adjusting the zoom lens, she scoped out the building. A black number and letter indicated that 1D was the fourth unit from the right on the first floor. Zoe snapped a picture. Then she set the thirty-five-millimeter camera down and waited. She opened the lid of the coffee in the paper cup the hotel had provided. Black, she had told them. It was a cardinal sin to ruin good coffee with cream and sugar. This was her third cup of the day so far. Like most people who did surveillance work, Zoe drank a lot of coffee on the job. Some of the other PIs she knew took Dexedrine instead, but Zoe had tried it once, and it had made her jittery. No, caffeine was enough for her.
Three and a half hours later, the morning’s coffee had made its way through her system and was pressing in
sistently on her bladder. That was an advantage men had. They could stick their dicks in a plastic bottle and pee when they needed to, right there in the car. Women couldn’t do that. Women had to drive off to find a restroom, and when they returned, inevitably those were the few absent minutes during which the person under surveillance had chosen to leave the scene. Rich suggested a porta potty in the backseat. Zoe said she’d hold it. Now she wished she hadn’t.
Zoe started up the Toyota and followed Briarcliff to Clifton Road. She was relieved to spot a twenty-four-hour gas station on the corner with a red and white neon sign claiming to have “the cleanest restrooms in the state of Georgia.” No more than ten minutes later, she was back at 1260 Briarcliff. She had just shut off the motor when the door to 1D opened. A tall, thin girl with short, spiky red hair exited, locking the door behind her. Zoe watched as the girl walked to the parking lot adjacent to the building. She was dressed in slim jeans, a pale blue halter top, and white sneakers, and carried a large canvas tote bag. Zooming in with her Rebel, Zoe took a quick series of photos of the girl, the car, the license plate. The girl got into a Ford Taurus and started the engine.
Zoe followed at a discreet distance, behind and to the right. The Taurus drove down Briarcliff through a tree-lined mile of modest brick ranchers to a street sign denoting Lavista Road. The Taurus turned left and then left again, this time onto Cheshire Bridge Road, a main drag of red-light establishments in an industrial area of Atlanta. Zoe passed A Cut Above Tattoo Parlor, Naughty Girls’ Lingerie, and Papa’s Smoke Shop before the Taurus turned left once more, at a black and yellow sign announcing The Doll Crib, Executive Gentlemen’s Club.
The Doll Crib was a long one-story concrete building painted marigold yellow and brightened by green lights accenting its eaves. A structure that looked like a tankless water tower was outlined in teal neon. Although it was only 6:00 p.m., the lights were on, shining yellow and green. Elizabeth parked her Taurus at the far end of the mostly empty paved lot and walked to the front entrance, stopping just long enough to say something to a muscular bouncer with long dreadlocks and a Tupac goatee. A moment later, she went inside.
Zoe snapped a few more shots before pulling a U-turn in the lot. As she drove past the bouncer, she saw a smaller sign on the front of the building. Open noon to 2:00 a.m. every day, including Christmas.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Elizabeth noticed the woman in the Corolla immediately, as soon as she looked out her apartment window and saw the beige car parked across the street and the camera lens pointed her way. A plainclothes detective? A PI? But why now? It had been nine months since Emily’s death, and from what she had read in the Chronicle, the police thought it was a suicide. Just another jumper off the Golden Gate Bridge. San Francisco was notorious for them.
So why now? Had the cops figured it out? But that was impossible. Elizabeth had been so careful and left no trace. But maybe the woman in the Toyota had nothing to do with Emily’s death at all. Maybe she was just a jealous wife, suspecting that her husband was cheating on her with one of the Dolls. It had happened before, she’d been told by Foxx when she mentioned the Corolla to him.
The Doll Crib. That had been the quickest job interview of Elizabeth’s life. At the door, she had flashed her hydrogen peroxide-whitened smile at the bouncer and said, “I’m looking for work.” He had sent her back to a dark, cramped office where she had interviewed for what felt like five minutes with the owner, a serious black dude in an Armani suit. He’d checked out her long legs in her tight jeans and her breasts in a skimpy top and hired her on the spot, no questions asked. Handing her a W-4, Jay Byrd had cautioned her to use her legal name and social. There was nothing illegal going on at the Doll Crib, Mr. Byrd had warned; everything was by the book. No drugs, no hooking up with clients, no drunk on the job, or she’d be out on her skinny white ass.
Elizabeth had assured him she understood and that was all good with her. She didn’t use, and she drank only a little, and as for sex with men, that wasn’t a problem. He gave her a look that said he got it. He told her she needed a stage name.
“Barbie?” she suggested.
“Taken.”
She went with the name she had used at the Kitty Club. “Venus?” she said. “Like the goddess.”
He wrote it down in a small black notebook with a gold pen. “Venus,” he repeated and flashed a brilliantly white smile. “Goddess of love.”
Chapter Forty
Zoe tried Stone’s number again, but when the recorder began its same greeting, she started to hang up. She’d already left a message, apologizing for not calling the night before, for not letting Stone know that she had arrived safely, as she had promised. On a quick, second thought, she decided to try again.
“It’s Zoe,” she told the message machine at the other end of the continent. “I’m a little worried that I haven’t heard from you. Call me. The number here is 1-800-HOTELMI. I’m in room 620.”
She hung up, feeling a slow misery.Where was Stone? And why wasn’t she returning her calls? A vision flashed through Zoe’s mind. It was an absurd image, but for a moment, Zoe saw Stone in bed, tucked between rumpled, white sheets, cradling a woman in her strong arms. Zoe could see Stone’s face clearly—the dark eyes, the long eyelashes, the sensuous lips—but the other woman’s face was blurred, softly out of focus.
No. Stone wouldn’t do that. Although why shouldn’t she? There was nothing between the two of them but a working relationship. Zoe felt confused. They had done exactly nothing to indicate to each other that their personal dynamic was anything but professional. Nothing. Zoe had no claim on Stone at all.
“Maybe I’m just exhausted,” she said out loud.
Yeah, that was probably it. Jet lag, long days, a frustrating case. No wonder she wasn’t at her best. She checked the clock on the bedside table, next to the phone. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. She dialed room service and ordered a pot of coffee.
“No, not decaf, regular. No cream. No sugar. Black.”
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Forty-one
At 1:30 a.m., Zoe left her room at the Michelangelo and took the elevator down to the second level of the parking garage. As always, she surveyed her surroundings as she walked. It was an unremarkable structure, gray and multileveled with square, concrete pillars and rental cars parked between freshly painted yellow lines. There were no security cameras and no guard booth at the Peachtree Boulevard entrance and exit. But there was a newly installed barrier gate, with a candy-striped arm activated by a key card, the latest thing in hotel management, the desk clerk had told her. Most of the garage was lit by fluorescent lights that dropped from the pipe-lined ceiling in unattractive balls, but there were shadowy corners, as well, that were completely dark. Not the safest garage she’d ever been in, but maybe midtown Atlanta was a low-crime ZIP code. At least she hoped so.
At that time of the morning, the garage was empty of guests and quiet. Zoe looked left and right as she moved toward her rental car, doing the head-on-a-swivel technique Rich had taught her. She opened the Corolla and got in, setting her handbag on the passenger seat. Putting her keys in the ignition, she half remembered an old TV show in which a private investigator had made that same motion, only to be blown up moments later by a car bomb. She banished the image from her brain. She was being paranoid. She turned the key. The engine purred gently to life. She put the Toyota in reverse and backed slowly out of the space.
Twenty minutes later, she was waiting in the parking lot of the Doll Crib. At 2:00 a.m., the club began emptying of its clientele: hustlers and players in suits and Oxfords, rappers and drug kings in black T-shirts and turned-back baseball caps. Cadillacs and Corvettes, Volvos and Lamborghinis. Not long after the last patron had left, Elizabeth said good night to the bouncer and walked to her Taurus. A few minutes later, the Taurus pulled out onto Cheshire. Zoe followed at a safe distance. Elizabeth drove straight home, parked in the adjacent lot, and went into her apartment.
Well, somebody’s got a late-night booty call. Zoe started the Taurus and drove back to her hotel to catch a few hours of sleep.
****
Early the next morning, Zoe parked several houses down on Briarcliff in the shade of an old maple tree. Atlanta was hot, much hotter than the Bay Area. By 9:00 a.m., the temperature had already climbed into the low eighties. Zoe wished she had brought lighter clothes. She had packed nothing but long-sleeved blouses and heavyweight slacks, which was perfect for the Bay Area but not for “Hotlanta.”
When she had driven by Elizabeth’s apartment a few minutes earlier, the BMW was still parked in front, and Elizabeth’s Taurus was still in the resident lot. Zoe picked up her Sony and dictated.
“This is Zoe Martinelli, working the case of Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. The date is Thursday, July 12, 1990; the time is 9:07 a.m. I am commencing surveillance on 1260 Briarcliff Road. The BMW, license plate FTZ 170 is in front of apartment 1D, as it was this morning at 2:35 a.m.”
Zoe shut off the Sony and sipped a cup of Michelangelo coffee in a to-go cup. A few minutes before 11:00 a.m., the BMW driver emerged from Elizabeth’s apartment. Elizabeth has a type, Zoe thought. The woman had changed her outfit and looked freshly showered. Her short, dark hair glistened in the bright sunlight. Today she wore army green chinos, a white polo shirt, and brown desert boots. A pair of aviator sunglasses protected her eyes from the day’s glare. Incongruously, she had put on big hoop earrings in an effort, Zoe supposed, to look more feminine. Probably a professional, trying to pass as straight for her job.