by Ellen Butler
“The manor is a privately-owned, historic estate. It can be rented out for parties, weddings, etcetera,” he said, his voice returning to its normal, serious tones.
“Does anyone live there?”
“No. It’s owned by Historic Land Estates, LLC.”
“Who is hosting tonight’s party?”
“A large IT company based in D.C. It’s a junket for their clients.”
A banging on the passenger side window startled me. Jillian’s mutinous face stared back. I pressed the button and the window slid down.
“I’m getting some gum. You want anything?” she said in a rather sharpish tone.
“Nope, I’m all set,” I replied.
“What about him?” She indicated my seatmate with her chin.
I glanced over to Jin.
“No, thank you, ma’am.” I swear if he’d been wearing a hat, he would have doffed it.
She waited for one of us to say something. Neither Jin nor I obliged her, and she gave up. With a humph, she stalked her way into the store.
I returned my attention to Jin. “Do you have a guest list? Is there a modeling agency on it?”
“No guest list but let me see if they have a client list on their website.” Jin picked up the tablet he’d laid on the dash and began swiping and tapping. “Here’s one, TCCM Modeling Agency. They’re based in New York.”
“Huh.” I sat back in defeat. Trevor’s contact was probably in town for the junket, and he’d been able to arrange for Ara to meet them at the party. “I see. Well, Jin, I’m sorry, I believe I’ve just wasted your time.”
He flipped the tablet’s cover closed and tossed it on the seat between us. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Question your instincts. You have good ones. Eighty to ninety percent of the time they’ll be spot on. This time it didn’t pan out. If you start questioning them, you could put yourself needlessly in harm’s way in the future.”
“Thanks, Jin.” I gave a sharp nod. “I appreciate that. You can clock out, I don’t think you need to follow us anymore. Have a good night.” I opened the car door.
“Good night, Cardinal. See? I can be nice.” He flashed his teeth at me in a bad attempt at a smile.
Smirking, I closed the door.
He backed away as Jillian exited the store with a soda in one hand and a candy bar in the other. “You gonna tell me what that was all about?” she demanded.
I sighed. “Get in. I’ll tell you on the way back to your place.”
“Is he an FBI friend of Mike’s?” she asked as we folded ourselves into the Audi.
“No. He’s from a security company that I’ve worked with . . . in the past.”
“That’s a fairly nasty scar he’s got. Ex-military?”
“Yes.”
“Marines?”
I shrugged.
“You don’t know?” She unwrapped her chocolate bar.
“Most of the Silverthorne guys are former spec ops. I don’t ask a lot of questions.”
“Why not?” she said with a mouthful of chocolate bar.
“Because they rarely get answered. I know he got the scar in Iraq, or maybe it was Afghanistan. I can’t remember. He’s been there. You know what I mean?”
She swallowed, nodding. “Too many have.”
“He told me the party was legit. There’s a modeling agency that’s in attendance. If she’s not eighteen, she’ll probably have to get her mom’s signature on the paperwork or something to work for the agency. Though I doubt Ara is modeling material, it sounds like this is a personal favor to Trevor. You know what I mean?” I laid my head against the rest, the leather smell surrounded me, and my shoulders relaxed.
“I agree, she doesn’t seem to fit the mold.”
Tension ebbed away, and I closed my eyes with a sudden onset of fatigue. “Who knows,” I yawned, “maybe it’ll work out.” The car purred to life beneath us.
“Back to my place?” Jillian asked.
“Do you have any better idea?”
She pulled onto the road before answering. “You want to see a movie?”
“Not tonight.” I yawned again.
“How about a glass of wine?”
“If I drink a glass of wine, I’ll fall asleep on your couch.”
“Coffee?”
I opened one eye. “What’s up, Jillian? You have something you need to talk about?”
“No.” She shrugged. “Just thought it would be nice to have company. We haven’t had girl time in a while.”
“What have we been doing the past few days?”
Jillian delivered an arch look my way. “That’s not quality time.”
“Tony is working tonight, isn’t he?”
“He’s on a twenty-four-hour shift.”
I groaned. “Okay. Coffee. Decaf. Half an hour.”
“Yay.”
I ended up spending two hours at my sister’s and was wide awake by the time I drove out of her parking lot past ten. Jillian had talked me into a game of gin rummy. While we played, we talked about Mom and Dad, her job, my job, her boyfriend, and mine. Both of us seemed to categorically avoid discussing Sadira and tonight’s little adventure.
A few miles from home my mobile rang.
Chapter Ten
I heard a sniffle. “Hello?” I said.
“K-Karina?”
My heart jumped. “Ara? Is that you?”
“C-can you c-come g-get me?” The words were muddled by sniffs bordering on the edge of tears.
“Where are you? Are you hurt?”
“N-no. I’m not hurt.”
I wheeled around the median, heading away from home. “Are you at the house?”
“No. There’s th-this general st-store nearby. It says H-High S-Seven. I-I don’t know the r-road. They had a p-pay phone.”
“I know where it is. Go wait inside for me. It’ll take me about thirty minutes to reach you and it’ll be safer for you to wait inside. Okay? Tell the clerk you’re waiting for your ride if he gives you any problems.”
“Mm-hm. Okay.”
The light ahead turned green, and the roadway, for once, was clear of traffic. I put my foot down, the little Honda’s transmission downshifted, revved, and the car shot forward.
For once traffic karma favored me; it only took twenty minutes to reach Ara’s location. I wheeled into the High 7 parking lot, slammed to a stop, and launched myself out of the car. Whipping open the glass door, I stumbled, slipping on the dirty tile floor, and barely caught hold of a shelf, which kept me from landing on my butt.
Ara stood in the corner near the lottery machine, a large drink in one hand, her clutch on the counter, and her sandals dangling from a finger on her other hand. The graying Asian clerk leaned against the counter, chatting with her. The pair, startled by my entrance, stared. Another patron in the snack aisle popped his head up to see the commotion.
“Ara?”
Her eye makeup had been scrubbed off, all remnants of her crying gone. She looked even younger and more innocent without it. “Hi, Karina. Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I straightened the handful of toiletries I’d knocked over. “Are you ready?”
Ara scooped up her little bag. “Thanks for the soda, Mr. Sing—and the advice. You’re a wise man.” Barefoot, she proceeded me out to the lot and paused, searching for Sadira’s car.
“It’s the Honda.” I hit the button to remotely unlock my doors, and my car emitted a polite beep.
Ara got in the front seat, tossed her shoes and clutch to the floor, and buckled up.
We were five miles down the road before I spoke. “You want to tell me what happened?”
She shocked me by answering without further prompting. “They wanted me to take off my clothes.”
“They—what?”
“The man, his name was DeShane. He had his assistant, Maria, take some pictures of me in my dress. Then he said I needed to strip down to my underwear.”
“In the middle of t
he party?”
“No. They had one of the bedrooms set up. He said models must be comfortable in their bodies and he needed to see my lines. When I refused, he—he—”
I didn’t pressure her, waiting for the story to unfold at her own pace.
“He offered me champagne. He said it would ‘loosen me up.’ Only, I think I saw him drop something in the glass, so I told him I didn’t drink because my dad was an alcoholic, and he’s in jail because he abused my mom.”
The car’s high beams raked along the winding road, lighting the sylvan woods on either side, throwing ominous shadows in its wake. I let out a breath through my mouth and said softly, “Is that true? About your dad?”
“Dad? I have no idea. He left my mom before I was born. She doesn’t talk about him,” the young girl delivered matter-of-factly. “But I didn’t want to get roofied. I’ve got a final tomorrow in French. I can’t afford to be messed up from Molly or Ex or whatever, you know. I mean, I’m not a square or nothing. I’ve done pot with Trevor and stuff, but for all I know, it could have been that date rape drug, GHB.” Ara was a bundle of surprises.
“You’re right. That’s very smart.”
“I don’t know about that.” She chewed on her soda straw as she spoke. “Because then he told Maria to explain it to me. Maria said that models are naked all the time at the fashion shows and shoots. They strip down behind a screen while two people throw clothes on them to send them back out.”
Though I didn’t like it, what Maria told Ara rang true. I used to perform in school musicals, and I remember one quick change the entire chorus had to make backstage—they didn’t strip to their underwear but close to it, while half a dozen costumer moms threw the next outfit over their heads.
“They both tried to coax me to take off the dress. That Maria kind of creeped me out, because she got real close and . . . stroked my arm.” Another car rounded the bend, lighting up our interior, and I glanced at my passenger. Ara’s nose scrunched up. “I think she was trying to be motherly, but it just came off as weird. She was invading my space. You know, inappropriate touching. Then, you know, as they talked . . . I was thinking about doing it. But, you see, I have this big red birthmark on my tummy. I knew if they saw it, it would be all over. So I suggested a different outfit, maybe a robe. DeShane got mad, yelled, and threw his camera on the bed. He was a big guy. It kind of scared me. That’s when Maria pulled him to a corner of the room and talked him down. Then he said forget the whole thing” —she sucked in a breath— “and he told me I was too short and too fat anyway, and that I’d need to lose at least thirty pounds before any man would want me. Then I ran out, crying.” She exhaled noisily.
I couldn’t imagine Ara losing thirty pounds off her petite frame. However, the modeling industry was known for its sticklike, bony figures and cutthroat competition. As much as I wanted to go back to that party and slap the shiznit out of this DeShane guy for being a jerk, he was probably right about Ara. She wasn’t destined to be a NYC model, and, from what I gathered, Ara’s heart wasn’t really into the modeling side of fashion, but rather design. I said as much to her.
After chewing on her straw for a few minutes, she agreed. “Besides, I really hate wearing these super high-heels. They hurt my feet.”
“Did you walk all the way to the store in those?”
“No. I took them off about halfway. It was too hard walking along the side of the road in them.”
“I imagine so. Did you call Trevor?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Twice. But he never picked up. He probably didn’t recognize the number. That’s when I called you.”
“I’m glad you did.”
She sucked on her drink and we drove for a while, buried in our own thoughts. I felt bad for Ara’s experience, but sometimes in life we must learn lessons the hard way. It was a good thing I gave her my number, or this night might have ended worse for her.
“Did you know” —she interrupted my thoughts— “that’s the first time I’ve ever used a pay phone?”
“There aren’t many left. I’m surprised that place still had one.”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing there were directions on it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known what to do.”
“You’re a very industrious girl, Ara. I think if you put your mind to it, you’ll make a splash in the design industry.”
“You think so?” she replied in a hopeful voice.
“I really do.” We were approaching the highway and I realized I didn’t know where to take my young passenger. “Where do you live?”
She directed me to a low-income area in Arlington, but she wouldn’t give me the exact address; instead, she had me stop on the corner of a major cross street. “Just let me off here. It’s one way and a pain to get out of the neighborhood. I can walk from here.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.” The sidewalk did not provide much lighting, and a dim yellow bulb marked the entryway to the apartment building Ara pointed to.
“It’s fine.” She gathered her possessions. “Thank you. You’re a really nice person, Karina. Bye.”
I waited until she disappeared into the apartment’s vestibule before driving away. The red numbers on my digital clock glowed 11:21. Ara’s apartment wasn’t too far from my own home. With any luck, I’d be curled up in bed before midnight.
THE ELEVATOR SPAT ME out on the fifth floor, and I wearily dragged my tired body toward my condo. My ears perked up when I heard voices in the normally quiet hallway. The sounds grew as I rounded the corner and came upon a bizarre sight.
“Cripes. What now?” I muttered.
My elderly, eccentric neighbor Mrs. Thundermuffin stood in the middle of the hall, her hands on her hips, facing the scene that played out in front of us. A twenty-something girl with long brown hair who I ran into occasionally on the elevator was swaying her arms in the air like seaweed in water, eyes closed, humming to herself. Meanwhile, a paramedic and a police officer, seemingly oblivious to the girl’s undulating, focused on something in front of my door.
I asked my neighbor, “What’s going on?”
Mrs. Thundermuffin looked up from beneath a set of lavender bangs. She wore a salmon-pink silk kimono with an intricate black dragon embroidered on the back and a pair of Hollywood-style, fluffy mules. I’d seen her wear the mules before and had loved them so much I’d ordered myself a pair online. She sighed heavily and informed me, “Lysergic acid diethylamide.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“These two apparently decided it would be fun to drop acid.” She clicked her teeth in disapproval.
I eyed my judgmental neighbor, thinking her disapproval was rather hypocritical, being fairly certain Mrs. Thundermuffin had experimented with drugs in her heyday. However, Mrs. Thundermuffin’s previous exploits were neither here nor there. What was of importance—the reason for the congregation in my hallway. “It’s Wednesday. Who drops acid on a Wednesday night?”
“A pair of pikers, that’s who.”
I didn’t know what a piker was and hadn’t any interest in finding out. “Excuse me.” I tapped the humming girl on the shoulder.
She opened her eyes, which were dilated and rolling in their sockets. “Oooo . . . bubbles.” Her finger reached forward, as if popping invisible bubbles.
“Hello,” I said as I waved a hand in front of her face, “do you know what’s happening?”
Her eyes focused on me as much as they were able to in their current state. “He said he saw a dragon” —she continued popping her bubbles— “and it chased him down here. I don’t know why. I didn’t see the dragon.” Her gaze returned to me. “Did you see it?”
“See what? The dragon?”
“Yeahhhhh. . . .” She breathed the word.
“Nope.” I moved around her to speak to someone not high on drugs. “Hey, what’s going on?”
The cop and the paramedic who were speaking in quiet tones looked up at me.
“Acid trip.” The cop shifted, and I was able to s
ee what they’d been hovering over.
A swarthy man with hair everywhere except his head was curled up on the welcome mat of my front door. The whitey-tighties he wore presented a distinct contrast against the dark Italian skin that muffin-topped over the elastic. He rocked back and forth in a fetal position, his eyes wide with fear, seeing a menace invisible to us. A mumbling spate of indistinguishable words poured from his lips.
“Is there anything you can do for him?” I asked the paramedic.
“Already done.”
“Now what?”
He shrugged. “Now we wait.”
“Are you going to arrest these two?” I directed my question at the officer.
“For what?”
I frowned. “Doing drugs, of course.”
He raised a jaded brow. “They’re just a couple of dumb kids. She” —he indicated bubble popper with a thumb— “told us she got it from a friend at work, and they thought it would be fun to try it out. They aren’t hurting anyone.”
“Well, maybe they could move their acid trip back to their own apartment. They don’t even live on this floor,” I complained.
“I know,” the paramedic said, pointing at the pathetic figure at his feet, “we chased him up from the second floor.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” I asked.
“Yeah, we can’t have this going on in our building.” Mrs. Thundermuffin stuck her nose into our little group. “I’ll make sure the condo association hears about this.”
“Oh, look, a UNICORN!” Bubble girl ran at the beige corridor wall, slammed face first into it, and then hit the deck.
I stared in shock. The officer behind me failed to hold back a snort.
Mrs. Thundermuffin hurried over to the prone girl. “Oh, my dearie, are you alright? Why, your nose is bleeding.”
The paramedic sighed, picked up the orange and white box at his feet, and meandered over to the two women. A moment later, he had the poor girl upright with a wad of gauze held to her nose. She seemed none the worse for wear, as she promptly went back to her bubble popping. I doubted she’d feel the injury until morning.
Mrs. Thundermuffin was gabbling something at the paramedic.