I watched until the distant restaurant entrance swallowed Abner. He didn't look back. The diamond necklace lay next to my red suede bag. I thought Abner had forgotten it. He was making a statement.
Three paces, I placed my bag, hat, and Sly McGee on the nearby table. “May I?”
Vienna Rhodes smirked a smile, presenting her back. “They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but I like my Smith & Wesson Magnum. She’s tons of fun close in. If my target happens to be running away—say one hundred yards out—my go-to is my Springfield thirty-aught-six. Only eight pounds. Not only can Aught shred puny men, but she can bring down big game.”
“I call them guns.” I took the chair cattycorner.
“That’s okay, too.” She slid her plate in front of me, passing her fork. “Their portions are—”
“Generous. Just the smell of this had me wanting to cut Mr. Abner short.” My eyes popped as the prime rib melted in my mouth.
“Right?” she nodded. “We’ll go to the farm. You can hold and even fire a couple of guns.”
“Tuesday and Wednesday? I think I can kick free. I’d rather go camping, but I’ve never petted a cow. Are their cows?”
“Dozen or so. How do you feel? About the guns?”
I shrugged, working on the prime rib. “Useful tools. Did you ever put out a fire?”
“Started a few.”
I nodded toward the wall. “Fire extinguishers are everywhere. The time to figure out how they work is before there’s a fire.”
“Good advice.”
“I guess if you ever go down in a firefight and I pick up your Smith & Wesson Magnum, that wouldn’t be the time to figure out how to use it or even look for the safety.”
“So, you do know shooting is more than muscle memory.”
“Vienna, nothing is as simple as it looks.”
She rolled her eyes the way I came. “You work for God now?”
“I was being poetic.”
“Almost sad about Abner thinking he’s playing the players and gets played.”
“Tossing him away like last week’s newspaper.”
“Not ever enough respect to hire a professional.”
“Hightower’s nephews. Twenty buck knee-cappers.”
“Underestimating is a critical error.”
“Up for a couple of hours of poker?”
“I’d love to watch you if I can change first. Before you tell me I’m good, let me say you make me feel underdressed.”
“You don’t play?”
“I do. I also like to hover, make people nervous.”
“You being my femme fatale will send a message like a tsunami across the room, Hemingway, the Cambridge rape cult, and the souls of men.”
“Yes, Artemis. It will be a lot of fun.”
Jessica Flores hung onto me as if I were dying, whispering, “It’s been too long.”
“Always.”
“I’ll change,” Vienna said, letting herself into my room at the Commodore.
Stepping back, keeping hands, Jessica asked, “Pamala?”
“She wants to do opening day.”
“She may. I don’t have the words—”
“None are needed.”
She closed her eyes. “You’re not an easy girl to find. I figured I’d camp out here—”
“I should at least make a point to call you once a day.”
“Butch—”
“Sorry.”
“For?”
“I know you were friends.”
“More like colleagues. Shared interests. I’m still stunned. I confronted him—about your money—his stealing. He did a song and dance thinking me stupid. I’ve never seen that side of him.”
“You’ve overlooked that side of him, having shared interests.”
“Perhaps.”
“Since you’re not going to ask. Mr. Falcon engaged a hitman for five thousand bucks to have me whacked—”
“Huh? Why?”
“I thought that was low, too.”
“Toby.”
“I suspect they figured with the way things were set up, with me dead, they could just strip Archetype LLC of everything. Miss Reeves predicted as much, draining the account.”
“I still can’t believe any of this. Tom and I were friends. And Butch.”
“That’s why I don’t hand out the designation like Halloween candy. The mistake I made was extending my trust to Stenholm and Falcon on your say-so.”
“I don’t know whether I’m more shocked, hurt, or embarrassed.”
“Lesson learned. Because that’s the way the universe works, the hitman—who is not a hitman, by the way—they engaged was Bartholomew Peters. I was not involved in the decision.”
“They hit the jackpot. All they had to do was take their winnings and walk away.”
“I’ve said that.”
“Tom?”
“What about—oh, I have no plans concerning Mr. Stenholm. He’s fucked himself pretty good.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Want to go in—”
“Eh, no. I see you’re busy.”
“I’m never too busy—”
“I mean—”
“Two assassins tried to assassinate me. Vienna took one in the gut. We kind of bonded over that.”
“Stenholm?”
“Unrelated matter.”
“Toby—”
“I’ve rattled some cages. Intentionally.”
“I asked Jake—”
“I told you not to.”
“What you said. Well, sounded like a wild tale. Before you came along, I did as I was told. I was happy to be my father’s second in Michelangelo's kitchen. It’s a prestigious position. Mateo would take over for Father. I’d be his second.”
“Mateo. Your brother.”
“After what you said, I thought about what he said. He didn’t run off to Europe to be an artist. He ran away from our father, which never made any sense to me. He said he’d be in touch but never has. We were close, or I thought we were.
“Even as a child, I suspected Father had extracurricular activities—a men’s club, which isn’t sinister in and of itself.”
“More secretive than normal. You and your mother are always kept out of the room.”
“Exactly. After what you said, I’ve thought about it. This secret life of his. A life my mother and I are excluded from. A life that Mateo ran away from. Jake told me I have a girlfriend filling my head with stupid ideas. Odd, he insisted he didn’t have a mistress, though I never asked. My father asked me if I liked the way we lived—my lifestyle.”
“If you like the way you live, don’t ask how you got it.”
“Almost word-for-word. You said I shouldn’t ask the question unless I want to hear the answer.”
I’d heard the door open and close.
“Don’t mind me,” Vienna said, coming to my shoulder.
Keeping Jessica’s eyes, I said, “Vienna Rhodes, Jessica Flores.”
“My God, you’re beautiful,” Jessica flustered.
“A friend?” Vienna asked, unflustered.
“Jessica and I are beyond friends. Beyond family.”
“Then I’m pleased to meet you,” Vienna said, stepping, taking Jessica’s hand.
Blushing, Jessica said, “Sorry. That just came out.”
“I get that a lot.” Vienna took a half-step back, out of our circle. “I repeat: Don’t mind me.”
“Jessica. Don’t ask the question unless you wish to hear the answer.”
She glanced Vienna. “Eh—”
I took her hand. “Vienna is also beyond friends. Beyond family. You know I never give out that designation.”
“I should go back in the room. The view from the balcony is—”
“Stay. Jessica? Do you want to know?”
Jessica’s dark eyes glanced Vienna again, returning to me. “Yes.”
“I’ll give you the short answer. Your father is a member of a men’s club. The initiation involves raping a virgin to a cheering crowd. Jake Simone is poised to join the club. He has his virgin, Linda Tyler, lined up.”
Jessica’s hand tightened around mine. She held my eyes for a geologic age, maybe two. “Linda works in the kitchen. She’s just a child. Are you sure?”
“I trust you mean that rhetorically.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re telling me my father raped a woman to join this men’s club?”
“I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not a men’s club. It’s a secret order that goes back hundreds of years. We’re looking for their actual charter now. The way they say it is something like they spill the blood of the innocent onto sacred ground.”
“Toby—”
“Jessica. I know the details of the ceremony because Shawn was one of their victims. I know Jake’s involvement because he said as much sitting across the table from me with his virgin at the dinner before their little men’s club meeting.”
I glanced back at Vienna. “That’s when I was hired to back up the Smith brothers, who had instructions to murder me, too. The contract put me at the table.”
I turned to Jessica. “Tyler is Hightower’s niece. Not all the virgins, it would seem, are unwitting victims like Shawn. This one they’re keeping in the family. Although willing, I suspect the rape will be violent as the ritual demands.”
“This, Toby, is a fantastic tale.”
“Jessica. I told you this before. I cannot stress enough how dangerous these people are, how large their web is, and what they’ll do to protect it. Jake will kill you with your father’s blessing.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“Believe it. Your life depends on it.”
She wilted—only for a flap of a bee’s wing. “Mother is lucky to be alive. She’s a strong, independent woman. I guess not so strong and independent that she’s willing to step out of the shadow of this men’s club.”
“My offer still stands.”
“Which?”
“Don’t even pack a bag. Don’t go back. You’re going to ghost anyway. Sooner is better than later.”
“I have to—”
“Everything I’ve told you is the truth. That was the short answer. The long answer is on our murder board in our war room.”
“The what?”
“We pin information up on the wall so we can get the big picture.”
“So much to consider.”
“I’m going to leave word downstairs at the desk with Mr. Hudson. If you need a room, yours. That way, when you run for the door, you won’t have to worry about where to go.”
Jessica nodded.
“Honest answer. Are you going to kill my father?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation.
Silence filled the space between us.
For thirty minutes, Mrs. French chuckled each time I rolled my eyes, Jerry Hastings, drinking too much, the only other veteran at the table besides Meyer and French. The men, proud as Bantam roosters at dawn, winning hand after hand.
I pouted to project my discontent.
Slicing the cards together, I gave a hard glance to Mrs. French on my right elbow. “Again?”
“Not me.”
I locked eyes with Jerry Hastings across the table. “I was enjoying myself. Why do you have to be an asshole, wanting me to do parlor tricks?”
Hastings gave me the well, I never face, the men around the table collectively appalled, all yammering objections.
“Mr. Anderson.”
Bryant Anderson appeared, placing a new deck of cards in my upturned palm.
“Thank you.”
He stepped away.
Jerry rose half out of his chair, face red. “I demand an apology.”
I’m sorry you’re an asshole?
“Sit down, Mr. Hastings, before you embarrass yourself further.”
The man to Hastings’ left—black hair graying in a flat top, mid-fifties, never missed a meal, with a well-worn dark blue suit in dire need of a visit to Valkyries Drycleaners and Formal Wear, jacket over the back of his chair, red suspenders, and black rimmed glasses—waggled his right index finger at me. “I do believe an apology is in order, young lady.”
The men, except for Chief Joe Meyer, were all Cambridge men. I entertained the passing thought to begin culling the herd. I did not wish to announce the war had come to their gate.
I held his eyes. “Mr. Everet Barrett. I’ll trade apologies with you. I’ll apologize for Hastings being an asshole if you apologize for raping Maria Edwards in the middle school boys’ room when she was fifteen. Not that any apology would be big enough.”
Silence washed over the room like a wave rippling softly over the light tan of a spring beach, the silence nesting for an eternity of three minutes.
“Ah, young lady, that’s libel—”
“Slander,” I said, my head rotating like a turret, locking eyes. “You being a judge should know better. Besides, it’s not slander if it’s true. While I have your attention, Judge Borch, just why did you allow Lucas Caspian to fuck the dog so bad in the grand jury that Judge Edward Sands kicked the case even before the ink was dry on the indictment?”
Again, the men clamored.
Borch rose quickly, his chair falling over. “That’s all confidential—”
“Confidential is a category, not a reality.”
Hands entered jackets.
April Matters, her .38 special in both hands, circled to her right. Vienna Rhodes, the blue steel of her Smith & Wesson Magnum catching light, the weapon comically large in her hands, circled to her left.
I smiled, placing the cards in front of Chief Meyer.
He tapped the deck. “Never cut your own throat.”
I clocked the faces. “Five card draw. Thousand buck ante.”
Hands exited jackets without weapons, shuffling bills, feeding the pot.
Bryant righted the chair.
“Just who are you?” Judge Borch asked, sitting.
Two hours later, with the room mostly cleared, I counted my winnings, not that I had to.
Christeen French started breathing again. “I see you,” she said. “I mean, I see your scheme.”
“You see the tip of the iceberg, Mrs. French.”
April Mathers, on the chair next to French, her hands shaking, worked on a Manhattan. “Holy fuck,” she whispered into her glass. “I had no idea who to shoot first.”
“Bryant,” I said.
He appeared, taking a fistful of bills from me. “Oh, that would have been a mess. A real mess to clean up.”
“Complaining?”
“An observation, Miss Grimes.”
“Gather it up.” I indicated my winnings. “Pass it around to the hotel and kitchen staff.”
“Very well.”
Vienna Rhodes, over my shoulder, said to Mathers, “If a weapon had cleared jacket, I wouldn’t have left you anyone to shoot.”
“Vienna?”
“The way you’ve painted the picture, I thought we were up against a worthy adversary.”
“What did you say earlier about underestimating?”
“That’s the thing, Artemis. They grossly underestimate you. I watched their faces. They’re complacent. They’ve been king of the hill far too long. No one to challenge them. Even as you were skillfully taking their money, they believed you just a girl who they could easily beat come the next hand. They’re victims of their own overweening hubris.”
“Complacent,” French lamented. “That’s how they managed to almost steal my business.” She held my eyes. “This is what Lark was into? Barrett. Raping children?”
“Yes and no. I don’t believe the mass of these men are serial rapists. I know they’re all rapists, even your dead husband. And that’s the reason Lark wanted the business to go to Hightower and not you.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You can’t rape a virgin, spilling her blood onto sacred ground.”
Pushing on the table, Joe Meyer worked to his feet. “That, Miss Grimes, was fun. I don’t think my heart agrees.” He looked down on me. “Barrett. What you said. Is that true?”
“Riversides has a rape culture. The popular boys gang-rape selective girls in the boy’s room as an initiation to join the popular children at their lunch table.”
“Barrett?”
“The administration looks the other way, makes excuses. Barrett walked in on a rape in progress and took a turn.”
Once again, silence descended.
“Artemis,” Meyer finally said. “What can I do?”
I stood. “I have the names of the rapists involved in that one account. What you can do is stay out of my way. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
He kept my eyes. “Ice and fire, Artemis. Ice and fire.”
I smirked.
Chase Hastings took the chair between me and Christeen French at the large, round table toward the back of the Commodore’s restaurant. She clocked the faces, stopping with Mrs. French. “Chase Hastings. I’m with the Philadelphia Courier.”
French balked.
“Did you get your own desk?” I asked.
“With Janet’s picture on it. I can’t tell you—”
I gave a soft nod to French. “Chase is inner circle.”
By French’s expression, I could tell she understood she was not in the inner circle, closing her eyes with a short bow.
Starting behind French, I said, “April Mathers,” then across the table, “Vienna Rhodes, Jacob Bancroft, Tom Thomas, you know Shawn Beedle,” then finally on my right, “Jennifer Reeves, who you’ve also met.”
Rote greetings were shared.
Charley, in his smart black tuxedo without the jacket, placed coffee in front of Chase, refilling others. “Cinnamon bun?”
Chase blushed. “It’s like you can read my mind.”
“I need not—” I started.
“You need not.” Chase clocked the faces again. “I was warned that you collect beautiful women.”
Shawn chuckled. “That was me.”
“I remember.”
Reeves stood, placing and opening her tan briefcase on the table. “It’s show time.”
Jack Hudson, from the front desk, in black pants, a white shirt, a red jacket, and a black bow tie, placed Cameron Hightower in the chair across from Mrs. French. Hudson looked to me, getting dismissed with a nod.
Introductions were not made.
With Thomas and Bancroft in passable suits and ties, Rhodes in silk, Reeves in a blue business skirt outfit, Shawn and April in dress slacks and skirts, and Chase dressed like Lois Lane, I said, “You could have worn a tie. The suit looks slept in.”
Hightower clenched his jaw for six seconds. “Look at you.”
I was in blue jeans and a blue plaid shirt, elfin makeup. With a shrug, I answered, “The universe is governed by irony.”
He circled around the faces. “I almost didn’t come.”
“That would not have been healthy,” Mrs. French said.
He held his hands in front of him, his palms up as if juggling. “Balancing the scales.” He looked at me. “You really poked the hornet’s nest.”
“News travels quickly,” I said.
“Meeting called in the middle of the night.” Again, the faces.
“You may speak freely.”
“There was a lot of ranting. They really have no idea what they’re up against. I sat on my hands, not wishing to educate their discretion. By the end of the meeting, they decided you’re just a girl playing games, likely a puppet for some man who wishes to shake things up, likely the man behind Mrs. French.”
Vienna gave me the what did I tell you look.
Hightower paused for dramatic effect, leaning toward me. “Barrett’s dead.”
“Now that’s interesting,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes. “He raped a child in the middle school. You said it last night. They confronted him. You’d think he’d deny it. He bragged about it. He’s feeding the fish in the Delaware.”
My face must have asked the question.
“They’re a criminal enterprise, but they do not condone raping children.”
“They are. You should have said, we are.”
“I’m out. I told you. We have an agreement.”
“I’d like to see the written charter of this criminal enterprise. However, I don’t think you can ever be out once you spill innocent blood onto sacred ground.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Let’s play connect the dots. Riversides Middle School—and I’m betting the high school—has a rape club.” I put my hand over Chase’s. “Led by Randy Hastings, the used-to-be football star, his promising career tragically cut short when a victim of his broke his arm. Riversides’ administration looks the other way.”
Chase Hastings sat straight, coffee to her lips. “Mark Hastings, Randy’s father, killed Sierra Bradshaw in the spilling innocent blood ritual.”
The color drained from Hightower’s face. “That was no accident like they—we agreed, convincing ourselves. I was there that night.”
“How’s that for Sierra rising from the grave, pointing at the photograph of my father?” Chase muttered to me, barely audible.
“Judy Baker? Katrina Snelling?”
His face answered the question.
Reeves looked down on me. “Are you quite done, Miss Grimes?” She waved the three-page proposal. “I now have a better understanding of this.”
“I did wish to hear what Mr. Hightower presents so I can laugh at him.”
With flair and a little wrist, Reeves tossed the proposal across the table. “Read it. Sign it.” She passed copies around. “Mr. Thomas, Mr. Bancroft. Prepare the paperwork. We’ll meet again at Mr. Bancroft’s office this Wednesday to finalize everything. Ten o’clock for settlement signings.”
Thomas and Bancroft flipped pages, dumbstruck, Bancroft finally realizing what a thicket actually looked like, and Thomas recognizing what an amateur con he was, performing three-card monte with children on the corner for nickels and dimes while I sat the emperor offering a causal thumb up or thumb down over the lives of powerful men.
“I’ll be out of town—” I started.
“I don’t need you. I’ve given myself your proxy,” Reeves said.
“The last person who gave himself my proxy—”
“I’m much smarter than him.”
Hightower muttered, “This is bullshit,” each time he signed the document in four places.
I knew when Mrs. French read the stipulation by her grin.
I caught and held Hightower’s eyes. “Questions, comments, criticisms?”
“You’ve worked me into a corner—”
“You’ve gleefully skipped into the corner all on your own accord.”
“Do you share a car with Inspector Bradley?”
“Eh, no. This is my car. Joe drives a company car.”
“They look the same.”
“They are—basically the same. 1968 Chevy Impala.”
“Black.”
“Really dark blue when the light catches it right. Joe’s is black.”
“No company car for the women in the office?”
“My choice. A car in the pool is shared—”
“I get the picture. Men mess up the cars, you’re expected to clean up after them. You need new wipers.”
“They do better when it rains, not mist. I hate driving in the city.”
“The city would be pleasant if not for people.”
We climbed up the Ben Franklin Bridge, the sky a blanket of gray, the distance downriver lost in fog. I wondered if I could see my restaurant from the other side of the bridge.
“Doubtful.”
“What is?” April asked.
I waved her off.
“The way you’re dressed. Everything you do is intentional—calculated.”
“I wanted Hightower to make no mistake who was in charge of the room. I was easily dismissed.”
“Jennifer Reeves. I really like her.”
“Everybody likes Miss Reeves.”
“You do mean you are more easily dismissed.”
“I do.”
“When you baited the men—”
“That was fun.”
“You knew what Vienna and I would do.”
“Yes.”
“And they still don’t get it.”
“They do not.”
“Everet Barrett. They killed him. Just like that. Toby. I had no idea such a world existed.”
“Hightower huffing and puffing about how they, as a matter of policy, don’t condone child rape, yet their ritual rape, even murder, is okay. Sierra Bradshaw was sixteen when Mark Hastings raped and murdered her. The lies men tell themselves to excuse their behavior.”
“Evil—”
“Pathological. There’s a difference. Evil implies a force beyond their control.”
“Pathological also implies their behavior is beyond their control.”
I nodded. “Maybe for some men, it is. For most, the behavior is a choice. Entering the boys’ room, Barrett had a choice. Too bad he’s dead. I would have liked to ask him if he thought he was gaining power raping Maria like he believed he was gaining power when he raped his virgin.”
“I’m not sure his motive would make a difference.”
“They killed Barrett because they thought doing so would wash away their own sin and not because they don’t rape children.”
“You think?”
“More likely they saw Barrett as a weak link. He bragged to them. They assumed he bragged to others. How else could I know what happened to Maria Edwards in the boys’ room years ago?”
“How?”
“I’m marrying Maria’s sister next Friday.”
“There’s a lot you haven’t told me,” April lamented, sitting on my log under her red umbrella. “You’ve been giving me pieces.”
“You’ve witnessed pieces. I’ve yet to brief you. We’ve been busy.”
“Things happened so fast. One day, I’m a top law enforcement officer in the state of New Jersey—”
“Getting nowhere.”
“Almost nowhere. I’ve made more progress in the past month than I have in the past five years.”
“And I haven’t briefed you yet.”
“I thought you’d have brought the Borrows’ file.”
“What did I tell you?”
“Yeah, yeah. I have to walk before I can run.”
“We’ll have our time, April. I haven’t decided whether you have what it takes to stand in the shitstorm and not flinch.”
“I had my pistol out—”
“I warned you. Laws will be broken. You’re sworn—”
“I’m on hiatus—”
“So vows don’t count? Laws don’t count?”
“Not since the moment I saw Jody Demarko lying there dead on the slab in the morgue, helpless, impotent to do anything about it.”
She produced an inhuman utterance. “Now, Toby, I can do something about it. Thank you.”
“Happenstance, destiny, or providence, April. Of the three, I like happenstance. There on the sidewalk in front of the Stiles’ house, my only plan was to point you in the right direction. Joe Bradley and I were already old pals.”
“Old pals?”
“He’s not inner circle like you, but we’ve broken some laws together.”
“He’s about as straight as a cop can be.”
“That’s what he says about you.”
“I have to mind my p's and q's—”
“Cross your t's and dot your i's. Clean up after men who intentionally leave trash in a car. Make the coffee. So many men looking for you to fail. I told Inspector Bradley that. If you were dirty, he’d never know it.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re a spiritualist.”
“Some have suggested I do an act at the carnival.”
Rolling forward to my knees, I gathered leaves and twigs into a pile, applying my Zippo, an aromatic gray mist surrounding me, then reaching for the clouds. I sat again, removing my boots and socks. “She is of the storm, the wind, the rain,” I chanted. Standing, I removed my shirt and my bra, dropping both neatly on the log.
“What are you doing?” April asked with puzzled amusement.
“You’re in a clearing in the woods right now. I’m going to show you Sanctuary.” Folding my pants and underwear, placed on the log, then naked, I stepped away into my bastard ballet, my hair damp, my body wet, glistening. I reached high, feeling like I was dancing inches above the rain-soaked soil.
A hand found mine. “You’ve been away too long,” Antoinette said.
“I know. I’ve been busy.”
“I can’t come when she’s there.”
“Vienna Rhodes.”
“Yes.”
“Yet, here you are.”
“April is different.”
“She did see you in the window.”
“Vienna is more like you than April is.”
“Boy, do I know it.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“In which way—”
“Don’t ask the—”
“I have your autopsy.”
“Are you surprised?”
“I’d like to know why.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
“My father hit me in the face with a hammer, too.”
As we circled the fire, not touching the rain-soaked earth, Antoinette’s fingers touched my faded scar. “An accident?”
“Aren’t they always?”
“No.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I know.”
“Asking Jack why is on my to-do list.”
“He’s a dangerous man.”
“I saw your autopsy.”
Eyes like mine watched me.
“I promise I’ll make some time for us. So much going on. I’d like to take a few days camping in the Pines, but with Pamala dying—”
“Still, you run off to the farm.”
“Only two days. They have cows. Maybe there’s a barn with a hayloft. We can meet there. Kind of romantic in a corny kind of way.”
“Just enough corn.”
In a twinkle of a flash, like seeing a falling star out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pamala and Antoinette as the same.
“I understand,” I said to the rain, sobbing pulling me from the dreamscape.
Struggling my wet underwear up my legs, I said, “I warned you that people cry.”
She waved me off, tears flowing onto her hands, her umbrella abandoned.
I dressed.
Shawn came from around the desk, gathering me up. “Hi, April,” she said over my shoulder. “You’re soaked.”
“It’s raining.” I stepped back.
“And you’ve been to sanctuary.” She opened her arms to April. “That means we’re friends that hug.”
“I’m not really a—”
And then she was.
Going to the desk, I glanced over the six estimates in progress, employing my red pen, adjusting numbers up, jotting suggestions. “These are really good.”
“Thanks for looking,” Shawn said, rolling her eyes toward the back of the shop. “Rich. I left him alone when he started crying.”
“Jane’s file?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a minute.”
I leaned against the door as the latch clicked behind me, Richard Serling staring across the table.
“I need a detective,” I said softly. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
His lips quivered, his eyes coming to me. “Toby—”
“There’s no sense to make, Rich.”
“I’ve been to war.”
“I know.”
“I’ve seen horrors. I’ve seen nothing like this. Shawn was so—”
“Cavalier.”
His attention fell to the table. “Cavalier is the exact right word.”
“Shawn is not like you. We are not like you.”
“I saw that. The other night. When I failed—”
“That I asked too much of you is not your failure.”
“I do understand.”
“You were a soldier for the United States. I do not ask you to be my soldier.”
“I want to—”
“I know. The service you provide is beyond value.”
“So, I’m a service provider?”
“Richard. You are not just a service provider. You are my friend. You know when I say that, it means something. You have gone to your war. You have killed human beings—”
“That still weighs heavily on me.”
“I can see it in your eyes.”
“You—eh.”
“Yes. I kill people. Nothing to see in my eyes.”
“Only the right people. Like me. In war.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Right people.”
“You kill people who deserve it.” He glanced the table. “These men. I think I could kill them. They deserve it.”
“I believe you cannot. That’s not a judgment. Simply stating a fact. I saw it in your eyes when you had your gun to the back of Mark Smith’s head and couldn’t pull the trigger.”
“You can—kill bad men.”
“I can kill anyone.”
He scoffed. “You couldn’t kill, eh, Pamala, for example.”
“Oh, Richard. I bet that’s a bell you wish you hadn’t rung. I could kill Pamala. Matter of fact, I will kill Pamala. As time steals her away from me, her pain will eventually get too much for her to bear. She would never kill herself, and she would never ask me or Doctor Kerney. She would bear unspeakable pain to avoid hurting me.
“When I feel her pain is too much, I will make the decision, and I will kill her.”
He held my eyes, time standing still for a geological age, maybe two. Finally, a soft nod.
“There are no words, Rich.”
“I know.”
“Are you good? I need the room. We have a visitor.”
“Oh?”
“Inspector April Mathers.”
He struggled from the chair. “I can—”
“Stay if you wish. I’d like you to. April’s been on a mission to find missing girls.”
He snickered. “And she falls in your lap.”
“Stay. She’s getting the full briefing. You can help.”
“I can.”
Pulling a file from the cabinet, I opened the folder, presenting my eighth-grade picture. “Mary Constantine?”
“Mary Con—Toby, they didn’t have cameras back then.”
“If they did.”
“Well, she does look somewhat like the statue I saw. Who is it?”
“Me. Before I butterflied.”
His face asked the question.
“I have no idea what it means, if it means anything.”
Rich worked into his jacket as I opened the door. Rote greetings followed brief introductions.
“You have the Jane Wilkins file,” Mathers said flatly. “Is she still alive?”
“Yes. She had her life savings stolen in a swindle, leaving her holding the debt of an overleveraged cab company. I bought the company and the debt to keep her from getting tossed out on the street.”
She blinked at me. “Wait? What? Why?”
“Because I could.” I waved Jane Wilkins aside, looking at Rich. “Eric York, Dallas Bass, Frank Knorr, and Wayne Jennings.”
Rich returned to his chair, pocket notebook and pencil at the ready, shuffling through the file pages. “I suppose you want their shoe sizes.”
“I want to know what they eat for breakfast and why they wanted to kill Jane Wilkins.”
“As I recall, it was a random act,” Mathers said.
I turned hard at Mathers. “If you’re one of law enforcement who stamped not worth pursuing on the Jane Wilkins file, we’re going to have a problem.”
Mathers shivered. “Never got to County. I’m familiar. The case caught my attention. I was kept out of the room. Never saw the file. May I?”
“Inspector Mathers.” I performed a terrible ballet curtsy. “Welcome to our war room. Feel free to add any notes to the walls or files.”
The door creaked followed by Shawn, her attention locked on white bond. “Eh, am I interrupting?” She nodded to the table. “For some reason, Toby doesn’t want that on the wall. Those forensic people must be ghouls.”
I shrugged. “I bet more like got home and cried all night, unable to sleep.” I cocked an eyebrow at the Hightower agreement Shawn was holding.
“Oh, I was just going over this. Old Time Dance Club?”
“You like to dance. You said they were in trouble. I’ve not put pen to paper, but we can rename it Shawn’s Corner. Maybe one night a week, have that teen dance party you suggested to Andy, maybe even dance lessons one night a week. It’s yours to do as big as you can dream.”
Dumbstruck, she glanced behind her. “You are aware of my responsibilities now.”
“I repeat. I’ve not given it much thought. We’ll have meetings. We can keep Davis Penn on to run the place. I have to look at what Penn’s involvement in—”
“From what I gather,” Serling cut in, “Penn’s a rube. Thinks he owns the place but mortgaged out to the mob. The way he and his girlfriend are dumping money into the place, he can’t be aware of the money being laundered through the place.”
“Correct your file. Janet Warring is not his girlfriend.”
Serling scribbled. “So noted.”
“I want her shoes size too.”
More scribbles.
“Some years back, she was involved in a jewelry heist. I don’t recall the details.”
“Because you didn’t work the case.”
“Right.”
“Caught your interest because a woman was involved.”
Matters blushed, only a little. “What was that word, Mr. Serling?”
“What? Oh. Rube.”
“Yes, she was played a rube in the scheme. Again, I don’t recall the details. Of the five people, she’s the only one who served any time.”
“Scapegoat.”
“That’s a better word.”
“I want that file.”
“I’m not sure I can—”
“I’ll ask Joe to get it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Toby?” Serling asked.
“Yes, Rich, I still want her shoe size. Shawn?”
“Yes?”
“You have that one more thing look.”
“Oh. Cubby Home Taxi Service? One cab company isn’t enough?”
“I’ve not put pen to paper—”
“Of course, you haven’t. Bottom line it for me.”
“I want to strip Christian Cubby Hightower of everything he thinks he owns, right down to this dignity, before I kill him.”
Mathers put a hand on her chest, drawing deep on the stale air.
I nodded to the table. “April, Cubby gave the order that sent the Smith brothers to muscle Jane Wilkens, which resulted in her getting her head smashed into a desk.”
“So, I’m not running two cab companies?”
“We’ll ask Hank if he wants to manage day-to-day. When he turns that down, we’ll give it to Rex Townson.”
“I like Rex.”
“Wednesday. Ten o’clock. I want you in that meeting. Wear a business outfit. I like that blue skirt. I don’t suspect there’ll be any problems.”
“Got it covered. Then Jennifer and I can do lunch.”
I rolled my eyes. “I want you to tell Hightower you’ll be with him the next two weeks. I want you to absorb what he does and how he runs his business.”
“I can’t possibly—”
“I’ll be back Thursday. I’ll try to manage without you.”
“There’s just so much—”
“Make a list. Write a report. Besides, I can’t see Hightower working more than four hours a day.”
“I was planning on a wild night of dancing. I’ll grab a quick dinner with the girls, then squirrel away in here with the lights off. I heard good preparation is key. As much as I want to be on the dance floor, I’m burning to put pen to paper.”
“I just may spend a relaxing evening playing five-card in the basement of the Lincoln.”
“Playing cards—and causing trouble.”
I nodded, turning. “Mr. Serling?”
“Toby?”
“If you would take Inspector Mathers through the Cambridge file and wall decor, I’d appreciate it.”
“Aye.”
“And anything else she’d like to see.”
“You’re leaving?” Mathers asked, almost mournfully.
“I want to get out of these wet clothes. Maybe take a hot shower. Shawn knows the room as well as me if Mr. Serling gets stuck. Rich?”
“Toby?”
“Did you hear about Butch Falcon?”
“Eh, no.”
“Should be in the paper today. Maybe second section, page four, below the fold. He stepped in front of a bus.”
“He’s dead?”
“Very.”
“I guess he shouldn’t have stolen from you.”
“That’s just the way the universe works sometimes.”
I opened the door.
“Artemis, eh, Toby?”
I turned. “Inspector?”
“I am not a hugger. Never was.”
“Nor am I. I guess we’re going to make an exception.”
We did.
“Mrs. Sullivan,” I greeted.
“You’re wet,” she greeted back.
“Rain let up. More like damp now.”
She rolled her eyes behind her. “My office, five minutes.”
Kyra Sullivan’s library office was organized for work, not meetings, the oak desk populated with books, papers, and files.
“Mr. Sullivan is a Cambridge man?” I said as the door locked shut behind me.
Her blank stare met me. “No.” Hesitation drank up three entire minutes. “His father.”
“Asher.”
“Eh, yes. Cambridge? I’d not made that connection.”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I know there’s something, which is to say when my husband told me to leave it alone.”
“If Mr. Sullivan knows something, and he’s not a Cambridge man, and he’s alive, means he doesn’t know much.”
“He didn’t say.”
“He doesn’t know. He suspects.”
“Could be.”
“So, now you’re going to tell me to leave it alone?”
“I’d no sooner ask the sun not to rise in the east.” She produced a book clad in a brown paper bag cover, which I accepted, leafing carelessly.
“Self-published,” she answered my unasked question. “I doubt there are many copies.”
I scoffed. “A True Guide to Witches. I’m not looking for folk lore. Besides, my passing interest in witches has passed. Now, I could stand further reading on owls—”
“Toby.”
“Mrs. Sullivan.”
“The author—”
“Jane Smith, sure.”
Sullivan rolled her eyes so hard, I took a quarter-step back.
“You are always so full of yourself.”
“It’s called hubris by many; I call it confidence.”
“I found that hubris uniquely charming in the Historical Society meeting. In this moment, not so much. Obviously, the author wished to remain anonymous.”
“Fearing the witches would put a spell on her? I really can’t help myself.”
“I almost missed this book—looking for the secret cult you’re interested in. I came across it when I was looking for credible information on modern witches but dismissed it.”
I may have crossed my eyes.
“The author claims to have been in a coven. A coven is—”
“I know what a coven is.”
Sullivan pursed her lips. “She glosses over the history. The book reads more like a hysterical diary. She says the coven was founded centuries ago with the purpose of rooting out evil men who prey on witches for their power.”
I swallowed hard.
“No witty sarcasm?”
“Give me a minute.”
“Read it for yourself. The story does read like folk lore. But keep in mind: myths and folktales are the lies by which we tell the truth. You may find the Cleansing of interest. A historical artifact I could verify.”
“1942?”
She nodded, producing a large, white envelope. “I pulled some news stories down. Other than this book, the slaughter remains a mystery to this day.”
“That sounds like the lede.”
“It is, in some of the articles.”
I displayed the book. “Nothing on these evil men?”
“Only what I said.”
“Opinion? I don’t care how wild it is.”
“You are right. There has existed for a very long time and to this day a cult of men who murder women in the misguided belief that doing so gives them magical power.”
“Andy tells me you’ve figured out who I am.”
“That wasn’t so difficult. The three Blanc children have library cards. What I’ve not told Andy is that I believe you in some way have risen from the dead to burn a swatch across the landscape, ridding the world of these evil men.”
“Kyra.”
She shrugged. “I’m happy to keep that to myself. I’ll consider it a wild musing I tell to entertain myself. Asher has always struck me as creepy, better suited to be on a slab than working with people on the slab in the medical examiner’s office. Him and his cryptic comments and coy smirk.”
“I know that smirk. I’ve never met him. I bet he has shiny shoes.”
Joe Matterson was a kindly elderly gentleman with summer noon-day sky blue eyes pushed in a pale palette. His white hair was slicked straight back terminating in a ducktail. He wore black dress pants, a white shirt, and a red vest, Maple Printing embroidered on the left breast.
“What will it be today, young lady?” he asked. “More Slice of Bread or maybe some grass cutting?”
I jockeyed myself up on the high stool, placing the book on the counter, letting his misremembering pass. “Is this your work?”
“No, no. I didn’t write that.”
I resisted my customary eye roll. “Mr. Matterson. Where did you go to college?”
“College? Never been.”
“My question is, did you print this book?”
“Oh, that’s a whole different question.”
“Sorry I wasn’t clear.”
“Yes. I printed this book.”
“Who wrote it?”
“Eh, that would be Jane Smith.”
“Who really wrote it?”
“Witches. What nonsense, huh?”
“Harriet Stiles?”
“Harriet! Gosh, no! Taught school, you know. Recently passed. Kept to herself, too. Odd for a schoolteacher. People said she was a witch. Never to her face.”
“If Mrs. Stiles didn’t write this book, then who did?”
“Friend of hers. Mable Rodgers. Likely long dead. Haven’t seen her in years.”
Because that’s precisely how the universe works.
“Michelle,” I greeted.
“Hi, October,” she greeted back, planted at the table, a coffee mug to her lips. “You’re wet.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I was just about to leave. I was hoping to catch you.”
“It’s a little late to be going to work.”
“Off today. Going to bus to the mall. Do some shopping.”
“Watch yourself in the windows.”
“Watch myself in the windows. At eight, Diane and I are going to get dinner.”
“Closer to nine.”
“I figure I’ll help close.”
With a visit to the bathroom, I left my damp shirt and bra over the shower rod, draped a towel over my shoulders, poured lukewarm coffee, and took the chair across from Michelle.
“Diane tilts hard to the religious side.”
“And you always say you’re not a gossip.”
“I’m just giving you a warning.”
“How so?”
“We got into it a couple times over who God hates. You may wish to thread likely if the conversation turns to the subject of gays or even transvestites.”
“I doubt God hates—”
“Since I don’t believe a god exists, that’s not a topic I’d invest in.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Between my father, Mr. Palmer, and other assorted people along the way, well, sure. I get your point.”
“Why were you hoping to catch me?”
“Huh? Oh, right. I kind of went off the other day. You ambushed Michael.”
“Ambushed is a harsh word.”
“That’s how he saw it. He got all defensive.”
“Okay. Apology accepted.”
“I didn’t apologize—yet.”
“Accepted anyway.” I looked left then right for effect. “The kitchen is spotless. The apartment looks nice.”
Michelle blushed. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Michael, you know. All that nonsense about his, well—”
“Penis.”
The blush deepened. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it. A lot. Since before we met. Before you and Michael met. It’s not like I wished I was a girl—a real girl. I wished I was you. You remember?”
“Yes. You said you were confused over if you wanted to marry me or be me.”
“Confused isn’t the right word.”
“Conflicted. At times, you wished you were me. Other times, you wish you and I could be in a real romantic relationship.”
“Then, here’s Michelle.” She presented her hands to her sides, palms up. “I’ll walk in the mall today, watching Michelle, wishing I could be in a real romantic relationship with her.”
“Or be her for real.”
“The other day, you hit me in the face with pick one.”
“Yes, Michelle. That’s an ambush.”
“Right? I don’t know. I really don’t know. Today. I’m planning a day with no Michael. Michelle is going to the mall. Michelle is shopping. Michelle is meeting up with a friend to have dinner. No penis wrestling, theirs or Michael’s.”
“That’s why I invited you to say here.”
“Yeah, you reminded me. More ambush. You’re leaving. I’ll be on my own. That’s both terrifying and exciting. That, too, forces the question on me. I really want to see Lenette—be with Lenette—today.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do you want to be Lenette?”
“Huh?”
“Like you want to be me.”
“Thought never crossed my mind.”
“I bet Shawn taking her car back weighed heavy on your plans today.”
“Huh?”
“Stop with the huh. It’s annoying.”
“Eh, no. Diane and I planned this last week.”
“I know you lied to me about having your license.”
“Only by a week. Shawn’s taking me car shopping next week. Even going to loan me the money. Because she really cares about me.”
“Shawn’s a good friend like that.”
“Right?”
“That’s why I keep her around.”
On the fourth step, “I’ve wanted to talk to you,” caught me.
Turning too quickly, my heel snagged. If not for the railing, I would have tumbled down the steps.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure, Mrs. Rodgers. Four-inch heels can be tricky.”
“Never did like them,” she snapped. “Sensible shoes. Always sensible shoes.”
Returning to the landing, I glanced behind me. “Want to come in? I could make some tea.”
“No, no. I see you’re in a hurry.”
“I’m on my way out. I’m not in a hurry.”
“I had a talk with Michelle.”
I raised my eyebrows, a signal for her to continue.
“Such a nice girl.”
“She is.”
“I’m old, I guess. Not like you young people. I’m not comfortable with your, eh, shenanigans.”
“I find many people even my age aren’t comfortable with my shenanigans.”
“I reacted without thinking, your door open—”
“This is really old news, Mrs. Rodgers. Water under the bridge. Michelle straightened it all out.”
Her dull eyes held mine. “Lilian told me.”
“Lilian? Oh, Mrs. Harris.”
She indicated her door behind her. “I’d be living out of a shopping cart right now if not for you, even after I tried to kill you.”
“I didn’t take the attempt seriously, Mrs. Rodgers.”
She clapped her hands as if shaking off dirt. “All straightened out?”
“Water under the bridge.”
“Right as rain.”
“I happen to like rain.” I produced the book, A True Guide to Witches, from my red suede bag. “I came across your book.”
She snapped a glance down the stairs and then grabbed my elbow. “Child! Put that out of sight!”
I obeyed. “I’m looking for information on this men’s cult.”
“You best just forget about it. Nothing good can come from it. Burn that book. I should have never written it. These men will kill you.”
I smirked, holding her eyes.
Mable shivered.
“I plan the other way around, Mrs. Rodges.”
She grasped my chin, looked up at me, twisting my face one way, and then the other. Her fingers dug in.
I stood tall against the examination.
“Could it be? Those eyes. You dyed your hair?”
I was tempted to pull my dress up, my underwear down to reveal my true hair color, though a shade darker. “Tell me, Mrs. Rodgers, about these men who spill the blood of the innocent onto sacred ground.”
She released my face, dropping painfully to her knees, taking my hands, sobbing.
“Now, we can get some tea,” I said.
When Keith Oswald and Shawn Beedle took a knee before me, the gesture was playful hyperbole, not a serious expression of devotion. I was not comfortable with Mable Rodgers on her knees.
I felt her eyes tearing at my flesh in an attempt to see my soul.
Finally, with a sip of tea across my table and gathered composure, she said, “You know who I am.”
“I do.”
“Toby.”
I did not show my relief she didn’t quiz me.
I nodded once.
“I mean, that’s the name you go by. If I’d known—
“Known what?”
“Antoinette Blanc.”
Again, raised eyebrows.
“You are Antoinette Blanc.”
I shrugged.
“I was devastated when I learned of your passing. I should have known Marcy somehow faked it.” She nodded. “Hiding in plain sight. I should have known. Those eyes.”
“I’ve been in hiding, out of touch for a long time,” I stated flatly, watching her eyes. “Alone in the wilderness.”
“For good reason.”
“Yes.” I displayed her book. “There is much I have not been told because there was no one to tell it.”
She sat back, donning the cloak of an elder. “In a time not a time, in a place not a place, there happened to be a gathering called. As I understand it, the agenda was to discuss going into hiding. Scattering.”
“Blending in. Hiding in plain sight.”
“Exactly. We were betrayed. The trap set.”
“Yet you survived. I’ve heard many versions of the story. The only thing common to all is that there were no survivors.”
“There was one.”
“I know that, too.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“If there were no survivors, how are you here?”
“Reread your stories—the newspaper accounts. That no one survived is intentional. They had to believe that.”
“No one in the building survived, but for the infant in a tomb.”
“Refrigerator.”
“You say tomato, I say tomb. Just maybe what was put in the refrigerator is not what was pulled from the refrigerator.”
Her dull eyes burned through me. I refused to give ground.
“I was late. We stood on the hillside, watching the sacred pyre. All our souls.”
“How many?”
“Sorry?”
“You said we.”
“Oh. Two of us. Me and your mother. She was a child at the time. A beautiful child, not unlike you. I don’t know the details, but as providence would have it—working as a secretary—she charmed—or was charmed by—Jack Blanc.”
“Does she know?”
“Know what?"
“Does she know that you put her with Blanc to hide her in plain sight?”
“I didn’t—”
“Someone did. Jack Blanc is one of these men who does evil.”
“I did not know that. Now that makes sense.”
“Make the sense for me.”
“He recognized you, which is why Marcy Powers had to fake your death?”
“Who?”
“Oh, Marcy Blanc.”
“Powers?” Oh, you’re just fucking with me now. I applied a Herculean effort maintaining my poker face.
“Her name before she married Blanc.”
“I gathered that much.”
“I’m not sure because I went my own way, but I believe Harriet put her daughter with Blanc, and I believe Marcy must be aware of all the sordid details.”
“Harriet Stiles?”
“Marcy should have explained all this to you.”
“I died when I was eight years old.”
“Well, you didn’t. You should go see her.”
“I did, Mable, die. He murdered me when I was eight years old, but Blanc left me alive to become this person, this thing sitting here now. I may have been Marcy Powers’ daughter once. I no longer am. Mable. Tell me the story of my people.”
“That’s not my place—”
“Make it your place.”
I watched my reflection—the reflection of Artemis Grimes—in the train window. “My reflection.” During my conversation with Michelle, her jumping in and out of first person and third person annoyed me. I wanted to say, Stop it; you’re Michael Roberts. Stick with the first person.
But he is not; then again, he is.
Cassandra Larkin wanted me to be that child from her dance class in the church. A child she could look down on, a child she could mandate down to, in exchange for her affirmation. In the moments of our reunion, I gave her that child; I put on the cloak. I was not that child. She’s long dead.
Though, I can speak as if I am that child—that person.
With Maple Rodgers, I put on the cloak of Antoinette Blanc. Rodgers would give Antoinette the information I wanted, which she would not have given me. Michael annoyed me so much because he was my reflection, a reflection not as pleasing as the window.
I’d noticed Edward Tilman—prim and proper, engaged with his newspaper—when I entered the train. He was a cliché, and I loved him for it, moving past, taking the sixth seat up my back to him. I didn’t wish to disturb the picture. Or have my thoughts disrupted by meaningless small talk.
The train rolled, crackled, and hummed with acceleration. Five young male voices joined the clammer, competing to say the funniest thing about the man in the black derby. The comments were neither funny nor original.
“Hey!” Mr. Tilman called. “Give that back!”
Judging by the footfalls, I stood quickly to the center aisle, taking the boy-almost-a-man under the chin with a straight arm, relieving him of Mr. Tilman’s hat with my free hand.
The boy danced on his toes, panicked.
I tossed him behind me with insulting casualness, his head bouncing hard off the corner of a seat before belly flopping to the floor.
“What? I can’t play, too? Good natured fun among friends?” I asked the bullies.
The four young men scurried to the back of the car, their fallen comrade slipping by me, joining them.
“Mr. Tilman,” I said with a nod and his hat.
“Miss Grimes! My word!”
We small talked for three minutes. I exited one stop down, hoping the five boys would follow in an ill-advised attempt to get even.
Pamala was up. “I just tire easily. Nothing I can’t live with.” She sat.
I spoke of cutting grass.
“You didn’t attend your brother’s funeral.”
“Saw no point to it.”
“Seems no one did.”
“How’s that?”
“Unlike yours, no one showed.”
“No one?”
“Well, hardly. His girlfriend.”
“Donna Weber.”
“Yeah. Your mother, of course. She’s like in a state of shock.”
“Lose a husband and two children all within a year.”
“She said your father got all creepy at that cemetery.”
“Well, his girlfriend’s dead. His world is falling about. It’s called regression.”
“Rewinding the clock.”
“If you see her, tell her he’ll be knocking on her door.”
“You did that all without Tarot cards.”
“When the storm clouds are gathering, I don’t need Tarot cards to tell it’s going to rain.”
“There’s some brochures on the bed—”
“Fuck you and fuck them. That is not going to happen.”
“Dad’s terrified to make a decision, pathetically defaulting to Mom. Mom’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown.”
“I’ll get Dr. Kerney to prescribe some tranquilizers so Mom can calm the fuck down.”
“He did.”
“I’ll work it out.”
“I know you will.”
“Back to bed? I’ll read to you.”
“Hansel and Gretel?”
“A story with such a sad ending.”
“I see what you did there.”
The elevator jolted to a stop, bouncing twice, the doors clunking open. Without turning, I asked, “How much do you love me, Vienna?”
“Artemis? You know I don’t love anyone.”
I chuckled. “It’s an expression. Someday I’ll treat you to my discourse on love. That day is not today.”
Ten paces on, I pulsed with my hand on the doorknob. “You weren’t the only one who survived the fire.”
“Oh, do tell.”
“I have to verify some information, but I’m pretty sure the people who chained the doors, blocked the windows, and set the fire—” I pulled the door open. “—are in this room.”
“Oh, do tell that, too.”
The entire room looked our way as if waiting for us.
I shrugged. “I’d like to say some shit fell out of the sky, but really, the information’s come with hard, basic detective work.”
“I’ve spent years—”
“I know.”
Vienna moved to my left.
I detoured to my right, trapping April Mathers in a hug. “One wasn’t enough,” I whispered in her ear.
“It wasn’t.”
Stepping back, I looked down. “Chase Hastings. I’m glad I can still be surprised. Hello, Mrs. French.”
“After the meeting this morning, Chase and I had a long talk and a leisurely lunch. She’s delightful.”
“She is that.”
I shared a head bob and smile with the man next to Chase. “Mr. Meyer. Always great to see you at that table, even if you’re too smart to fall into my traps.”
“I suspect you take it easy on me.”
“You suspect correctly.” I narrowed my eyes. “You are?”
He almost stood. “Brown, ah, Artemis. Greg Brown. We met a few—”
“I vaguely remember. What do you do?”
“What?”
“The question is not difficult, Mr. Greg Brown. What do you do for a living?” I symbolically panned the room. “Are you a gangster like most the other men?”
Mrs. French laughed.
“Not that it’s any of your business. I’m in commodities.”
“Mr. Brown. Do you know what the first rule for a trial lawyer is?”
A bit flustered, he said, “I’m not a lawyer.”
“Mr. Meyer, I know you’re not a lawyer, but can you help Mr. Brown out?”
“Oh, sure, Artemis. The rule is in the top five for cops, too. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.”
“I thought we were here to play cards,” Brown whined.
“We are, Father Brown of Saint Paul’s Church.
“Well! I never!” Brown objected.
“You do not disappoint,” Jack Blanc said. “This is the exact performance I heard about.”
“Knowledge is power, Mr. Blanc. If I were to announce what secrets you have, the people in earshot would drag you out to the alley and beat you to death.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” He smirked, clearly demonstrating the difference between hubris and confidence.
I looked at my naked wrist. “Not even eight o’clock and look at you, Mr. Hastings.”
“Jerry, Miss Grimes. Nothing about my taste in—”
“Our little secret.” I winked, dropping between Jerry Hastings and Mrs. French. “If someone shorts the deck, I’ll ask Miss Rhodes to put a bullet squarely between her or his eyes.”
Rhodes snickered behind me. “Consider that a standing order.”
“Five card draw, nothing wild, a thousand bucks to see your cards.” I counted bills into the pot.
“A thousand!” Blanc objected. “We were playing fifty!”
“It’s after eight. The adults are here now.”
“Uncle Jerry warned us about you.”
“Believe every word of it.”
“I had no idea you knew each other,” Jerry Hastings said.
I winked across at Chase. “We’ve had dealings.”
Dealing the cards around, I said, “I heard you got a new job.”
“Artemis! I’ve not made the announcement.”
“They might have noticed when you didn’t show up for work this morning.”
“Yesterday morning, I guess. Fluffers don’t work on Saturday. No call—no show. I’m such a rebel.”
“Given the family dynamic, I bet they won’t notice you missing until the end of next week.”
“Eh, Artemis?”
“Mr. Hastings?”
“I’ll bump it a thousand. Two cards.”
“We have a player. Thousand to you, Mr. Blanc.”
Blanc took three cards.
“Father Brown, thousand to you. Tell me. When you ask God for good cards, does he punish you for lying, giving you bad cards, or does he reward you with good cards because you’ve been such a good boy?”
Mrs. French giggled like a schoolgirl; I could hear Vienna’s smirk. Collectively, the rest of the table held their breaths.
“Two cards,” he spit, slapping the cards on the table. “A thousand to wipe that smirk off your face.”
“You run with some cheap women—or boys—Father Brown.”
“Oh, child, it’s not good to mock God.”
I smiled softly, shrugging dismissively. “God begs to be mocked. I’d be impolite not to.”
Meyer’s hand came to Brown’s shoulder, holding Brown in his chair. “Maybe mind your cards, not the patter,” Meyer counseled.
“Mr. Meyer?”
“Marry me?”
I smiled. “You’re not my flavor, Joe.”
He looked at his cards again.
“Two thousand,” I said.
“You haven’t even looked at your cards. How am I supposed to read you?”
“Thinking you can read me is what costs you money.”
“Okay. Two grand to see my card. One.”
“That’s an expensive card.”
“It is.”
Chase bit her lip, sitting back, looking at her cards. “Same question.”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“Don’t cloud the issue with details.” She knitted her brow, pursing her lips. “A year’s rent. Janet’s going to kill me. Three.”
“Mrs. French?”
“Did I ever thank you?”
“Yes. Two grand to you.”
“Look at your cards.”
“Like that’s going to help.”
“A woman can dream.”
Bryant Anderson appeared, placing a black desk phone next to me. “Line three when it lights up.”
I stood, taking the phone with me. “Vienna.”
Rhodes took my chair.
Thirty paces off, Bryant plugged the wire into the jack.
I pushed the line-three button, putting the receiver to the side of my head. “Yes.”
“It’s Molly Rose,” Shawn said. “She’s been kidnapped.”