Heart of the World (14 page)

I had sewing to do and makeup, not to mention leg-shaving. Roz hadn't mentioned my hair, but I'd need to do something about that, too.

“That's okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Eight hundred,” he said.

“Huh?” I'd gotten so wrapped up in his story, I'd forgotten my initial query, and his offer took me by surprise.

“I'd go eight hundred for this. The gold isn't worth anywhere near that much, but I know somebody who'd really go for it.”

“People collect this kind of thing?”

“People collect anything. Soap dishes, tea trays, cigar bands. Art
deco is the biggest down here. You move to Miami, and you've got a few bucks, you collect deco.” A smile crinkled the edges of his mouth and eyes. “I talk too much.”

“Not at all. But I think I might not want to sell this now that I know so much about it.”

“See? I talk too much. Where did you say you got this?” His hand caressed the figure.

“I didn't.”

“Hey, no offense. With collectors, the more you know about a piece, the better they like it. Eight hundred's a good offer. Especially if you don't have papers to go with it.”

It was more money than I'd imagined. “I'll think about it.”

“Maybe I could go another hundred. It's a very nice piece. Do you have a card? A phone number? I could give you a call later this afternoon, or tomorrow. I don't think you'll get a better offer.”

“I know where you are. If I decide to sell, I'll come back.”

He pressed a store business card on me, scribbling his name on the back before unlocking the door so I could leave.

I was halfway to the motel, walking in the fierce sun, before I realized I still held the birdman in my right hand. His felt pouch, released from my backpack, exuded the perfumy odor of Paolina's locker. The mix of scents blended with the heat, and suddenly it seemed as though she stood there, in front of me, wide-eyed and smiling, a mirage shimmering in the heat.

Where is she?
The question was so firmly in my mind I almost spoke to the blank-eyed statue aloud. Dammit, if you're supposed to be her spirit guide,
where the hell is she?

CHAPTER 12

Vandenburg wore his blue silk shirt open at
the neck and tucked into softly pleated gray slacks. His heavy gold chain matched the glint of his cufflinks. In the back seat of the chocolate-colored Jaguar, a navy blazer on a wooden hanger blocked the tinted window. The lawyer gave me a studied look, then shoved the car into gear with more than a little ostentation, not that the Jag needed more than it already had.

“I underestimated your duffel bag,” he said.

I settled into the leather-upholstered cave, inhaling the scent of new car as I fastened the seatbelt, my scarf-top securely attached to my necklace with tiny unnoticeable stitches. My late aunt Bea, who'd once imagined she'd teach me to embroider, would have been proud.

Roz had walked me through the do's and don'ts of slutty tropical evening wear, starting with how to properly tie my top so I didn't pop out. I'd been planning to wear my hair up, but she'd vetoed that, voting for wild and curly, which was easier anyway. Bend at the waist, hands through the hair, then makeup, the light base that blurs rather than hides my few freckles, exaggerated eyeliner, shadow, and mascara. Rose-colored lip gloss.

Vandenburg seemed to approve.

He did tourist chitchat as we drove eastward toward the ocean, trying to sound like this was some kind of old-fashioned date while I tried
to quell the rising sense of urgency in the pit of my stomach. What if Naylor proved as devastating a dead end as Diego?

The air conditioning felt cool on my bare arms as we drove past low tile-roofed office parks and self-serve gas stations. Vandenburg handled the car well, but didn't push the speed limit. If I'd been driving, I'd have let the Jaguar rip on the freeway, but he held it to a careful sixty-five. When we turned off the freeway onto a narrow two-lane road bordered by a drainage ditch on one side and skinny palms on the other, the tourist patter ended as abruptly as it had begun.

“I'm taking a risk, bringing you here,” he said.

“Drop me a block away and I'll wander in without you.”

He braked and we coasted to a stop at the side of the road. The Oldsmobile behind us honked and swerved as the lawyer swiveled to face me.

“I have to know; did someone send you?”

“I told you. I'm working for myself, looking for Roldan's daughter.” “Are you wired?” In spite of the AC, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

“In this?” I held up my arms. “Are you kidding?” I'd considered the possibility of concealing a weapon and given it up, figuring that if worse came to worse, I could use the thin spike of a high heel. They're not called stilettos for nothing.

“They have small recorders,” he said.

“You're too suspicious. Probably comes with being a lawyer.”

He pressed his lips together and stared at the steering wheel.

“What else can you tell me about Naylor?” I asked.

“Like I said, produces movie shorts for big companies.”

According to Roz, Naylor didn't belong to any of the professional motion picture organizations. She'd come up with a big fat zero on Drew or Andrew Naylor.

“But he makes his money from drugs,” I ventured.

“You didn't hear that from me.”

“Are you his lawyer?”

“I've represented him in several matters dealing with divorce and, um, matters of paternity. I can tell you this: He doesn't deal well with women like you.”

What the hell did that mean, women like me? Tall women? Uppity insubordinate women? I didn't ask because Vandenburg was on a roll.

“Look, it'll work better if you keep to the background, play the girlfriend role, let me do business with Naylor.”

“What are you planning to tell him?”

“Nothing fancy. I need the man's number. Old business.” He pulled back onto the road without so much as a glance in the rearview mirror. He must have considered the conversation finished. I didn't.

The streets got wider, the palms statelier, the lawns more expansive. The houses grew larger, too, like well-tended hothouse plants. The Jaguar turned down a narrow lane, passed through high iron gates, and came to a halt at the rear of a parade of high-rent vehicles. Instead of waiting his turn in the parking queue, Vandenburg left his keys in the ignition, shrugged into his jacket, and abandoned his ride. I followed suit, accompanying him up a winding shell-paved path. One of the red-vested car parkers chased us down and handed him a ticket stub.

The distant shoreline curved to the left, midnight ocean melting into pale sand. To the right, white fairy lights hung over the portico and pillars of a pseudo-Southern plantation-style Colonial. Urns of red and orange bougainvillea framed the rose-colored double doors, and win-dowboxes underscored enough windows for a small hotel. On a shaded patio, waitresses in micro-skirts plied guests with drinks in frosted glasses.

Vandenburg stopped halfway up the walk and I was glad to take a moment to steady myself on my heels. Chatter and music drowned out the sounds of the ocean.

“Maybe this isn't such a great idea,” he said.

“I'll handle Naylor myself. You don't need to be part of it.”

For a moment, he seemed to weigh his options. Then he glanced at the drinkers on the patio and shrugged regretfully.

“They've already seen us together.”

Dozens of full-blown roses crowded a teak sideboard in the entry-way. The house was airy, the paintings abstract, the furnishings modern. We made our way past a pair of leather sofas in the living room, through a mirror-lined hallway into a dining room with a high, vaulted ceiling, but it was the guests that grabbed the eye, especially the women, glossy,
poised, and clad like women in a European fashion magazine. With shoulders bare and inches of midriff on display, I was modestly covered, my outfit a burkha compared to party standards. Roz was right: I could have worn underwear if I'd had the foresight to pack sexier gear. I wasn't the tallest woman in the gathering and that was unusual enough, but some of these women made me feel large, a middleweight among sylphs, and believe me, I'm thin enough that people use the word skinny.

Models, I thought. Or actresses for commercial films.

“Where's our host?” I murmured as we moved through the dining area into a crowded room beyond. I had to slide close to Vandenburg's ear to whisper because this new room featured a movie-screen-sized TV loudly tuned to basketball. I could smell his musky cologne. In addition to the TV blare, a rhythmic bass came from the back of the house, loud enough to be live. Vandenburg shook hands with one man, slapped backs with a couple others. He didn't introduce me; none of the men mentioned the women clinging to their arms. I was starting to think my nose, broken three times in the line of duty, was too big. None of the other women had noses to speak of.

Vandenburg was checking out the guests, his eyes roving quickly across the crowd, but whether he was looking for Naylor or searching for more agreeable female companionship, I couldn't tell. I repeated my query.

“I don't see him. We ought to mingle for a while, have a drink or two. It'll look funny if I race over and beg for information.”

He was right. He might fare better if Naylor were slightly soused by question-and-answer time, but I was impatient. This didn't look like my kind of gathering. Too many capped teeth and dazzling white smiles. Too much lacquered hair, like a Hollywood movie where nobody looks like a real person you might see on the street.

I bit my lip. Vandenburg could see his answer didn't please me.

“Okay, okay,” he said irritably. “Let me grab a martini first. Why don't you wait by the pool?”

“Tell Naylor whatever you want. But if he won't talk to you, I'm taking a shot.”

“I thought we agreed—”

“You agreed.”

We stared bullets at each other till he dropped his eyes.

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He gave me a leer. “Right. Well, come to think of it, dressed the way you are, he might tell you a lot of things he wouldn't tell me.”

Some compliment, I thought.

“But no threats,” he said.

Within ten seconds of Vandenburg's departure, a waiter stuck a champagne flute in my hand. A man to my left spoke melodious Portuguese. An Asian woman wore an ice-blue sarong. Cigarette smoke hung like fog over the room. As I moved through an adjacent corridor, it joined and blended with the pungent fug of marijuana. If Naylor owned this house, he was minting money. Hell, even if he rented, he was paying big bucks.

A tray of hors d'oeuvres sailed by just out of reach and I realized I was starving. The champagne was fine, icy and dry, but it needed a food foundation. I followed the tray toward French doors, hoping they opened out onto the pool.

In spite of the crush in the house, the pool was clearly the hub of the party. I made my way through a field of round tables lit by flaring torches, skirting a group of men speaking fluent Colombian Spanish, wishing I still smoked, so I could hesitate and light up, the perfect excuse for eavesdropping. I overheard the word “extradition.” Further along, a man's bored voice, in English: “You do the math; no way he'll refuse.”

The smell of barbecue made my mouth water. I found the source and piled a plate with skewers of grilled shrimp. The tables were full, so I perched on top of a cement wall separating the pool area from a stretch of sandy beach, settled my plate on my lap, and ate hungrily. A passing waiter replaced my champagne flute with an icy Margarita rimmed in salt.

The pool, a kidney-shaped turquoise basin with a diving board, was backed by a low cabana. The men wore European-cut Speedos to show off tanned, fit bodies; several of the bodies hardly meshed with seamed fiftyish faces. The women, much younger, wore postage-stamp bikinis or Brazilian thongs. Not the sort of thing you see on Massachusetts beaches, where folks jump into a fifty-degree ocean wearing bike shorts over tank suits.

“Do you swim?”

I nodded through a mouthful of shrimp. The man to my left was young and deeply tanned, with a lifeguard build.

“Plenty of suits in the cabana. Bet you could find one that fits.”

“Maybe later.”

“I'm Jerry.” He gave me a dentist's-dream smile. “You need a refill on that Margarita?”

I didn't, but Jerry brought one anyway. He didn't know Naylor, was a friend of a friend who'd worked on a film. “What kind of film?”

“You been to a car show? You know how they use those models to sell the cars? That's what he does on film, uses pretty girls to promote whatever the company sells. Nice line of work, I'm telling you.”

Jerry was low maintenance, the kind of guy who talks and talks and only expects you to nod occasionally. It was easy to do that and watch the crowd.

Everywhere, evidence of wealth, on the men more than the women. Pinkie rings and gold chains, diamond stud earrings. Stuff that could be readily sold. The men at the tables weren't dressed as skimpily as the women. Quite a few wore jackets and with the temperature in the eighties, several of those jackets probably hid shoulder holsters. I'd been to parties like this when I'd first started going with Sam Gianelli. Mob deals, a lot of guests carry.

Sam would fit right in. He'd appreciate the way the men talked in sentences that were almost incomprehensible because they assumed a certain knowledge.
This thing, that stuff, this business
—terms that could be recorded and played back without the cops learning a thing. I wished he were here, standing where the vacuous Jerry stood, holding a glass, grinning at me with his eyes over the tilted rim.

He hadn't called. I didn't know where he was staying in Las Vegas. I was worried about him, the worry a dull tattoo underneath the more pressing anxiety about Paolina.