Anonymous Rex (13 page)

The shock I expected at my blunt question does not materialize. “I prefer the term
lover
.”

“You know he was married.”

Sarah flinches, eyes narrowing. She crunches on a piece of ice, lips pursing tight. “Yes, I knew he was married.”

“Then you were McBride’s mistress. When did you two start screwing?”

“That’s a charming phrase, Mr. Rubio.”

“I’m a detective, not a poet.”

“And you could use a course in manners. This is my dressing room at my place of business. I am more than glad to invite you in for a drink and a chat, but if the conversation is going to take on overtones of … of vulgarity, then I may have to ask you to leave.”

Pushed it too far—I have a tendency to do this. Come to think of it, this is precisely what got me thrown out of New York and the rest
of society nine months ago. I back off, and, as a show of my willingness to exercise social graces, I remove my hat and place it on a nearby table.

Sarah smiles, and all is right once again. Her drink has fallen to dangerously low levels, and she licks the rim of the glass with a long, strong tongue snaking out between a set of blazingly white teeth. Patting the sofa cushion next to her, she says, “Come, sit. I can’t stand talking to a man unless I can look into his eyes.”

A knot has formed in my throat, and I’m hoping she’ll offer me another drink so that I may wash it down. “I can see you fine from here,” I say.

“But I can’t see you. Nearsighted.”

Reluctantly, I place myself on the couch as far away from the witness as possible, but Sarah Archer clearly has other ideas. She swings her legs up and around, depositing them in my lap. Her pedicure is recent, her toenails a bright purple hue. “Now, you must understand, this is difficult for me, talking about Raymond. I may not have been his … wife …”—and once again, that quinine sneer of the lips—“but we were quite close. Even for a ‘mistress.’ ”

“I understand. I don’t mean to upset you—”

“Hasn’t the case been closed already?”

“So everyone tells me.”

“But?”

“But I don’t take my cues from everyone.”

Pointing her toes at my chest like a ballerina, Sarah says, “Can you imagine what it’s like to stand onstage in three-inch heels for an hour? It’s hell on the feet, Mr. Rubio.”

“I imagine.” Time to press on. “Did you ever meet a man named Donovan Burke?”

“This is the point in our relationship where you’re supposed to ask me if I want a foot massage.”

“Our relationship?”

“Come on. Ask me.”

“I’d like to ask you some more pertinent questions,” I say.

“And I’ll be more than happy to answer them.” She stretches her toes, her legs, and her toned calf muscles catch my eye. Not enticing. “Once you agree to massage my feet.”

Clearly, I have no choice in the matter. She could, indeed, throw
me out at any moment, and extra questions notwithstanding, I would be lying if I said that I was not enjoying the banter of this interview on some level. A vigorous foot rub begins. The dainty feet I hold between my hands are firm, yet smooth, and though my sense of touch is dampened by the gloves I am forced to wear in order to cover my claws, I am unable to detect a single callused inch. “Back to the question at hand—did you ever meet a man named Donovan Burke?”

“I don’t believe so. That’s good—right there, on the heel—yes, that’s it—”

“Did you ever go to the Pangea nightclub?”

“Sure I did—that was Raymond’s place.” She sits up slightly, bemused grin, as if remembering a long-forgotten fact. “Actually, I sang there once. New Year’s Eve, I think. I did a holiday medley.”

“Donovan Burke was the manager of the Pangea.”

Sarah spits a chunk of ice back into the tumbler, eyes suddenly averted from my gaze. “Right.”

“So I’ll ask you again—did you ever meet a man named Donovan Burke?”

“I guess … I guess I must have.”

“You must have.”

“If he was the manager, then I must have. But I don’t remember. Raymond had a lot of people on payroll. Managers, trainers, bodyguards—even detectives, like you.”

I shake my head. “There are no detectives like me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. There was another private detective from LA a few months back who was more than happy to give me the time of day—”

Up in half a heartbeat, I’m standing over Sarah Archer, pulse racing, blood running wild laps through my veins. I think I’ve scared the poor girl, as she sinks down into the sofa like a woman caught in quicksand. “What was his name? Where did you see him? When did you see him?”

“I—I—I don’t remember,” she stammers.

“Was his name Ernie? Ernie Watson?”

“Maybe—”

“Maybe … or yes?”

“It might have been,” she says. I’ve got her backpedaling, nervous,
and though I’ve got no reason to browbeat this witness, at least she’s not coming on to me now. “He was about your height.… Older, nice-looking.”

“How long ago did you see him?”

“It was after Raymond died … January?”

Time scale’s right—Ernie was killed in early January, only a few days into the McBride case. “What did he ask you about?”

“Not much,” says Sarah. “We’d only talked briefly, and he told me he’d call later. He gave me a card, a local number to call him …” She leans toward a nearby nightstand—robe falling open slightly, exposing a flash of pale, naked skin—and searches through a small handbag. A moment later, she produces a small business card, and sits upright. The robe closes. I wasn’t looking, anyway.

It’s a standard business card from J&T, Glenda’s firm. Sometimes TruTel employees use J&T as a home base of operations during their stays in New York; Ernie must have done the same. This may mean that his notes, previously unfound, might be discovered with a diligent search. I make a note on my cerebral yellow pad to call Glenda as soon as possible and have her check it out. “Did you ever try the number?” I ask.

“I didn’t get the chance,” says Sarah. “And I think he was planning on coming back to see me—to ask me more questions, I guess. But I never saw him again.”

I am unable to keep a hitch out of my voice, but valiantly attempt to cover it with a cough. “He died,” I say simply.

Only concern and surprise on her face. “I’m sorry.”

“He was hit by a taxi.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “At least it was quick.”

Our conversation is interrupted by a rapid series of knocks at the door. Sarah looks at me—“Must be the stage manager,” she says—I look back—and before either of us can respond, a letter slides under the door, skittering across the wooden floor like an albino spider, bonking into my penny loafers before slowing to a halt. Sarah’s name has been scrawled across the top in a shaky, palsied script, as if scribbled there by a third-grader unsure of how to compose his cursive letters.

I reach down to retrieve it, and—

“Don’t!” Something in her voice I haven’t heard before, something on the other edge of fear. If she were a dino, I’d know immediately—the scent would give it away.

“I was just going to get it for—”

“I’ve got it,” she says. “I’d rather choose when a man bends over for me, thank you.” But despite the quip, Sarah’s demeanor has taken on a darker tone. Her feet drag behind her as if manacled, and I can see her teeth working over and around her lips, biting down, leaving marks, almost drawing blood. Knees bending slowly, body reluctantly following, she crouches to the floor and gingerly lifts the envelope, running her fingers over the dark black scribbles that spell out her name.

“Something’s wrong,” I say, half question, half statement.

She shakes her head, grits her teeth. “No … no. Everything’s okay.” Her temples pulse. “I’m very tired, Mr. Rubio. Perhaps we could continue this at some other time.”

I offer to make her a drink, to fetch a bottle of wine from the bar out in the nightclub, but she declines. Sarah hasn’t moved from her spot near the couch; she’s rooted into the parquet, tendrils of apprehension having burrowed deep into the flooring.

“Maybe … maybe you should go,” she says, and I expect this. I snatch my garment bag from the living room and hoist it over my shoulder, preparing to re-create my role as Vincent the Wandering Raptor, his worldly possessions bundled up and dragging around behind him as he traverses the streets of New York.

“You’re right, I should get moving,” I say. “Perhaps we can talk again later.”

“Perhaps that’s best.”

“I’m at the Plaza if you need to find me. Late arrival at the hotel was three hours ago. Maybe if I hang out on the streets for a while, I can stay out until early check-in. Won’t have to pay for the extra night.”

But she’s too far gone to trade quips, and I mourn the loss, even if only a temporary one, of a great small-talker.

“I’ll see you out,” she says, and then makes no effort to move.

“Don’t worry, I can do it myself.” I open the door—no one in sight. Whoever delivered the letter, most likely a bike messenger flunky who knew nothing of its contents, has disappeared.

“Goodnight,” she says, some part of her brain returning to its owner to operate the politeness functions.

“Night. Maybe I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she says, her mouth back on autopilot. “Tomorrow.” The door closes, and I’m back in the dank hallway, rancid beer odors and all.

I need to call Glenda, and I need a strong hit of basil. But there’s a tickle in my belly that’s growing into a hunch, and if there’s one thing Ernie taught me, it’s to treat all tickles like hunches and all hunches like fact.

Whatever that letter meant, whatever was inside, deserved a reaction. It got one. Now that reaction deserves some action of its own:

If my instincts are correct—a pretty big gamble nowadays, but instinct’s all I’ve got left—it won’t be more than five minutes before Ms. Sarah Archer skedaddles her way out of that dressing room, down the hallway, through the stage door, and into the night.

And I’ll be right behind her.

If I can get a cab to pull over.

E
rnie was like this: a Swiss watch with six gears slightly out of whack. You couldn’t stop the guy; he always had an answer. You’d tell him, “We can’t go run surveillance, the car’s dead,” and he’d say, “We’ll get a jump start.” And you’d say, “The spare battery’s dead too,” and he’d say, “We’ll buy a new one.” Now you know you’re stuck in the game with him, and this isn’t the banter game—it’s the Q&A game, and the stakes are always higher. Once you get it started, the only thing left to do is play it out, even though you know you’re going to lose. “We don’t have the money for a spare battery,” you’d say to him, and he’d come back with, “We’ll borrow one from a store.” And by the time you were done, you’d stolen a car, run your surveillance for the night, outrun local law enforcement, and replaced the car back in its original spot, usually with a full tank of gas. At the very least, Ernie was polite.

We were a great team, Ernie and me, and though our styles might have been different, we complemented each other perfectly as partners. Whereas Ernie could run a tail on the slipperiest of ghosts but had a habit of infuriating witnesses to the point where they’d clam up like a … well, like a clam, I preferred the more genteel side of investigation, calmly herding suspects just where I wanted them, convincing them to confess hours before they even realized they’d slipped up. Ernie wore whatever the heck fell out of his overstuffed
closet first; I was a Brooks Brothers man. I wore no cologne; Ernie practically showered in the stuff, as he was a Carnotaur and felt some shame about his own scent. An excellent guiser, Ernie could go from dino to human in minutes flat and back again, and more than once he startled himself in the bathroom mirror. Ernie was fat, I was thin, Ernie was a smiler, I was a frowner, Ernie was an optimist, I was a pessimist, Ernie was Ernie, and he could be a real shit sometimes. But he was my Ernie, and he was my partner, and now it’s all for naught.

But the big guy’s still watching over my shoulder, every day, every case, and no matter how ingrained the PI practices have become within me, they still bear that indelible stamp marked
ERNIE WAS HERE
. It’s a shame that he can’t be beside me, especially now, as I’m quickly losing sight of Sarah Archer’s taxi.

“Make a right up here,” I urge my cabbie. This one smells heavily of curry.

“Here?” He’s about to turn down a main road, whereas Sarah’s cab had swung into a dark alley.

“No, no—up a little farther.”

“Where other taxi go?”

“Yes, yes, where that other taxi went.”

“You want follow taxi?”

“Please.” I hadn’t wanted to hop in the car and tell the driver to
follow that cab!
due to my usual cliché restraint, so I have been forced, for the last five miles, to give up-to-the-second directions like a talking Thomas Bros. map. Fortunately, my cabbie is an excellent listener, almost to a fault. Twice now I’ve accidentally directed him the wrong way down one-way streets, and he’s been too intent on following my instructions like an automaton to pay attention to little things like traffic rules. Hey, this isn’t my city, I’m doing the best I can.

“Where are we?” I ask.