The Blue Room Vol. 5 (5 page)

Chapter 8

           
M
y night with Xander Blue ends as beautifully
as it began. We stay out until midnight, lying naked together on his silk divan
spread out over the white sands on his private beach, watching the moon slowly
vanish behind clouds and the light it casts on the water slowly fade. It is the
most beautiful feeling in the world: being with him, being happy.

            But
I know it can't last. Soon it's dawn, and as the rosy-fingers of sunrise make
their way across the horizon, Xander is driving me back to Blue Towers. I want
to cry, although I know it's stupid to do so. This is the end of an assignment,
nothing more. He slips the envelope full of cash into my hand, the way he
always does. Then he kisses me goodbye: a light, tender touching of our lips.

            “I'll
miss you,” he says. “But Staci – I'm worried it's getting too dangerous out
there. For you. For us.” He looks down at his shoes, a dark shadow across his
face. “I will see you again, Staci, but I don't know how much longer it can go
on...”

            “What
are you talking about?”

            “You
and me, Staci,” his voice is gentle and tender. “I'm worried this is getting
intense. It's not safe for you. I'll see you again, but after that...I don't
know. I'm sorry, Staci. I should have said something sooner. I just didn't want
to ruin a single moment of our beautiful night together”

            “No,
of course,” I say. I am the consummate professional: adaptable, flexible. I
know when a job is just a job. “Whatever you want,” I say. “It's up to you.”

            I
go to my room before he can see the tears stinging my eyes. I sit for a while
by myself, letting the tears flow freely.

           
Stupid
Staci,
I berate myself,
how many times do you have to be reminded that
this is just a fantasy? How many times are you going to fall for the same cheap
lies men tell women? Didn't your upbringing teach you anything?
Now both
Terrence and Xander are pulling away from me: both making it clear that I'm
just a good-time girl for both of them, nothing more.

           
I
sigh. I guess I'm just the same old stupid fool I used to be on day one. Life
in the Blue Room hasn't toughened me up as much as I'd hoped.

            I
look over at my answering machine to see a bright red blinking dot on it: one
voicemail. I'm hoping against hope that it will be Xander, calling to tell me
he's changed his mind, that he wants to see me again right away. But it's a
woman's voice: and one I don't recognize at that.

           
Hello
Miss Atussi. This is Beverly Scrampton from the Los Vegas Hospice Network.
We're just calling to confirm that Genevieve Atussi has been discharged from
our system and is heading home. Thank you very much for your time. Bye now!

           
My
mother – discharged from the hospice? But it couldn't be! I'd been so careful,
always so careful, about paying her bills on time, making sure they were paid
long before the first of any given month. At least, until my father took over
charge of her accounts....

            I
gritted my teeth. I was stupid to trust him. He'd vanished from our lives once
before; how could I not have seen that he would do it again? How could I not
have seen that the minute my back was turned he'd run off: leaving my mother
flat broke.

           
Kicking
a cancer-stricken woman out of hospice care – some dad you are
, I think
grimly.

            My
heart is pounding with worry. What is my mother doing now? How could she leave
the hospice without even contacting me directly?

            I
know what I have to do. There's no choice in the matter. I don't even ask Mrs.
Walters for permission. Something more important even than my life is at stake
here. I march straight out of the Blue Towers, cash in hand, and make my way to
the airport. Everything is passing in a blur: I barely even notice what I'm
doing, where I'm going. I book the first flight to Vegas and then I'm there.
Back home: in this arid desert landscape, with neon lights everywhere.

            I
don't even know how many car crashes I cause on the way. I drive like a maniac,
speeding full throttle down the highway, until I get to my mother's house.

            “Mom?”
My voice is tentative. I'm terrified of what I might find. “Mom – what are you
doing here?”

            The
door is unlocked.

            “Mommy?”
I cannot hide the shaking in my voice. “Are you okay in there?”

            I
enter the house. My mouth falls open.

            The
place is beyond a state.

            I've
never seen chaos like this: not ever. The place looks like it's been ransacked
– but nothing has been taken. Instead it's like somebody went through this
place, looking for something.

            Panic
floods through me. Who would do this to my mother: my sweet, kind, lovely mother
who has never done an ill turn to anybody all her life? I can't believe it.

            “Mom!”
I scream. “Mom!”

            “Staci...”

            The
voice is a weak one, but it's there. Overwhelmed by relief, I rush to the
source. My mother is in her bedroom, in her pajamas, curled up in a corner. She
looks so little and frail in her pajamas that I want to cry.

            “Staci...I'm
so sorry.”

            “Mom,
what happened? What's going on? Are you okay?”

            “I'm
so sorry....”

            I
pick her up. She is so light in my arms. I bring her to the bed and wrap her
tightly in the covers. “Mom, what's going on?”

            “I
should have told you the truth a long time ago, Staci.” Tears are rolling down
her cheeks. “I should never have kept anything from you. But I wanted to keep
you safe so badly – I didn't know what else to do...”

            “What
are you talking about?”

            “Your
father, Staci. He's a Tennenbaum.”

            A
what?”

            Then
it hits me.

            “Like
one of
the
Tennenbaums?”

            The
shady banking family that makes the Blues look like paupers.

            “I
told you some untruths about your father, growing up. I never wanted to .But I
was scared if you knew the truth it would only make things worse. You'd be
angry at me for the life of poverty we led, knowing you were so close to
wealth...”

            “That's
not true, Mom! I could never be angry with you.”

            “Your
father and I loved each other very much,” my mother said. “And we wanted to get
married. That was our whole plan. But when the other Tennenbaums found out I
was pregnant – they must have had me followed to the doctor's – they knew even
before I told him, they got scary. Really scary. They offered me a million
dollars to have an abortion. They said I was a no-good showgirl slut who
probably slept with hundreds of other men and they didn't want me to sully the
perfect, pure bloodline or the Tennenbaum name. They threatened me. They made
it very clear that if I turned down their offer and refused to have an abortion
then they'd come after me. They told me they had access to hit men, that they
were untouchable. That you and I both would simply...disappear one day, and
nobody would ever even find the body. I was scared, Staci, so scared. They were
so powerful – and I was a nobody. But I knew that I would never kill you. Not
for a million dollars. Not if my own life depended on it. You were my baby. You
were my link to the man I loved. But I knew that if I stayed with your father,
neither of us would ever be safe. So I went into hiding. That's why I gave up
being a showgirl. I was afraid of being recognized, afraid of being out in
public.

            “But
they found you, Staci. Someone found a photo of us taken in a local paper of me
at your high school graduation. You in your cap and gown. Me hugging you. A
beautiful memory. But somebody must have seen it – and now you're in danger.
Oh, Staci, I'm so sorry. I wish I knew what do do. The Tennenbaum family is
urgently trying to reach us. But I won't let them find you Staci. I won't let
them have you.”

            I
can't believe what I'm hearing. It's one thing to have a killer on the loose in
the Blue Room, but to be in danger when I'm among my own family?

            “I
only just got home,” my mother said. “They've already been here, looking for
you. We need to move. We need to go somewhere safe.”

            “Don't
worry.” I hold my mom tight. “I'll take care of everything. I'll find you
another hospice – for now, I can find you a furnished apartment somewhere. I'll
use my Blue Room company credit card – they'll never be able to track the
purchase to me.”

            I
try and take all this in. I'm completely overwhelmed.

            There's
so much to do. So much to take care of.

            I
go through the house after my mother falls asleep. Everything has been
ransacked. Everything's been overturned. Photographs of me, my mother. I pick
up one photograph, half-crumpled, of me and Rita together some Christmas.
Looking like sisters. Looking happy.

            Memories
of a better time, I think. We may have been poor, but at least my mother had
her health. At least I had my friend.

            What
I wouldn't give to go back to that time now!

            I
cry softly so that my mother doesn't hear me. I can't let her see how I'm
suffering. My mother has given up so much to protect me. She's even risked her
life. What could I ever do to pay her back for that dedication, that love?

           
What
can I ever do?

Chapter 9

           
T
hat day, I use my Blue Towers credit card to
book my mother an apartment, furnished, secure, safe, in a gated community. I
use a fake name on the booking form: “Alexandra Blue.” There are so many Blues
knocking around, I reckon, that one more won't hurt.

            “You
don't have to do this,” my mother tries to insist. “I'll be fine on my own. I
feel a lot less sick than I used to; the experimental treatment your father's
been paying for is really helping me physically. I just hate to think of being
a burden to you.”

            “You
could never be a burden,” I insist. Now, more than ever, seeing how much my
mother has sacrificed for me makes me realize the depths of my love for her.
She'd been offered a million dollars not to have the baby she hadn't even
planned, even wanted. A million dollars or a life in poverty, degradation, and
fear. And yet she'd chosen life. Chosen me. What could I ever do to make that
sacrifice worth it?

            Deep
down, fear gnaws at my innards. If my mother found out what I really did for a
living, who I really was, would she still be happy with the choice she'd made?
Or would she realize that she'd given up her whole life to give birth to a
prostitute?

           
Every
mother's dream
, I think grimly.

            I
look at that photograph of me and Rita together. We look so similar, I think.
We could even be sisters. The same wide smiles as we hold up our ornaments:
decorating our little Christmas tree. Those were the good times, I sigh. When
we were eating cheap fast food, enjoying life. Not like it was when things were
complicated. Not like now.

            But
as I stare at the photographs, I start to wonder about something. A hunch comes
over me.

           
Rita,
Rita,
I whisper to myself.
Where can I find you?

            I
say goodbye to my mother, wrapping her in a tight embrace that's practically a
bear hug.

            “Careful!”
My mother laughs. “I'm more likely to get crushed to death by you than fall
vicitm to any of those nasty Tennenbaums.” But I know she's only doing her best
to make light of a terrible situation. She's just as scared as I am, deep down.

            It's
so hard saying goodbye to her.

            But
I have to go back to the Blue Room. Not just to work – if I'm paying my
mother's rent again I have to earn a salary – but also to find Rita. For the
first time in a long time, I'm starting to think I might have a lead.

            When
I return to California, I do not go to the Blue Room. Not at first. Instead, I
head straight to Malibu, where I go back to the rehab clinic.

            I
have an idea.

            Last
time I was there, I asked for Rita Malone. But what if Rita used a false name –
disguising her identity just the way my mother had to for so many years?

            So
instead of asking for Rita, I show the woman there a photo.

            “Have
you seen this girl?” I ask. “I've been told she was here. But she was using an
alias – I don't know what name she checked in under.”

            The
woman behind the counter takes the photo. A shadow falls over her face. “es...”
she says. “I recognize this girl...I think. Someone like her came in a few
months ago.”

            My
heart leaps.

            “She
was so bruised and banged up, though, I'm not sure it was her. Her face wasn't
exactly in pristine condition. But I think there's a chance – yes, yes – that
girl did come in a while ago.”

            “Can
I see her?” I'm tripping over my own words. “Please, I need to see her. It's
really important. I've been looking for her for a long time.”

            I
lean over the counter to look into the woman's eyes, trying to make her
understand how important it is that I talk to Rita: and that I talk to her now.

            But
she isn't smiling.

            “Sorry,”
she says. “I wish I could help you, really I do. But the girl I'm talking about
died a few days ago.”

            For
a second I don't understand what she's saying. Sounds are coming out of her
mouth, but they aren't words. They have no meaning.

            Then,
word by word, syllable by syllable, my brain pieces the facts together.

            Rita.
Dead. A few days ago.

            A
few days ago.

            That's
all.

            This
whole time, she's been here, so close, right under my nose. This whole time, I
could have found her.

            And
instead I left her to die in this place alone.

            “What
happened?” I'm trying to hold it together, trying not to cry.

            “Her
injuries were just too bad, I guess. Internal stuff. She just...didn't wake up
one day. That's all.”

            I
don't let myself cry. I can't cry. I can't even process this. Not here, not
now. But the tears must stream down my cheeks anyway, because the woman behind
the counter pats my shoulder and says; “It's good that someone's here who can
care for her. We've been searching for her relatives but I can't find anything.
We have some of her possessions, you know. Belongings that normally go to the
family. You might as well have them – we don't want to throw Virginia's clothes
away...”

           
Virginia's?
Where have I heard that name before.

            She
leads me into a back room.

            “There,”
she says. “Everything Virginia had. It's yours.”

            No
wonder I hadn't been able to find Rita. She went by Virginia here.

            I
look at the objects Rita has left behind. A stack of clothes. Some jewelry. A
couple of books. All that's left of my dead best friend.

           
I
could have saved you, Rita,
I think, trying to stop the tears from falling.
Oh Rita, if I could have only saved you.

           
Then
I see the note. Written in Rita's hand. Some numbers.  A key, taped to the
paper. And a single word: Bayview.

            Rita's
bank.

            What
could it all mean?

            Unless...

            Then
it hits me. The numbers, the key. It all makes sense. Rita's directing me to a
safe deposit box at Bayview bank?

            But
why?

            There's
only one way to find out. There's only one way to get to the truth.

            I
head straight to Bayview Bank in Los Angeles. It's only a ten minute drive from
the Blue Hotel. I hold the key in my hand, fingering it until it's warm with my
sweat. These mysteries just keep getting curiouser and curiouser. I'm like
fucking Alice in Wonderland, I think. Always going deeper down the rabbit hole.
Never able to find my way out again.

            What
could Staci be hiding? Money? Jewelry?

            My
fingers shake as I open the safety deposit box.

            But
to my surprise, the box is empty.

            Almost.

            There,
in the back of the box, is a small box topped with an envelope: so thin I
almost missed it altogether. I pull out the envelope with trembling hands.

            There,
written in Rita's familiar handwriting, is one word and one word only: STACI.

            A
note for me? My eyes fill with tears as I take the note and open it, hungry to
read Rita's every word, hungry to read the last thing my best friend would ever
say to me.

           
My
dearest Staci,
the note began,

            I'm
so sorry that you're reading this note. If you're reading this, it means that
something has happened to me, that I was never able to explain all this to you
in person. If that's true, then I want you to know how much I love you. You
were more than a friend to me. You were a sister. But if something happens to
me, I know that I can't let you go on living without knowing the truth about me
and who I really am.

            I'm
not what I seem to be, Staci. To you I was a yoga teacher, a friend and a
patron. But I was more than that, I knew who you were long before the day I
appeared outside your car. I'm a private investigator, one of the top
undercover investigators in the country. And your father asked me to keep you
safe.

            Your
father had heard rumors of your existence. Long after you were born, he started
to piece together the truth behind the disappearance of the woman he loved:
that she had escaped him and his family to start a new life with the child that
was all that was left of him. And he realized that if he knew you existed, so
would his family.

            I
befriended you. I followed you. I looked out for you every step of the way. I
did my very best to keep you safe: or at least as safe as I could

            Remember
that person you said you thought was stalking you? The “hunch” you had the
first year we knew each other that you were being followed? We laughed and
dismissed it as a crazy feeling. But it wasn't, Staci. Someone was following
you: taking pictures, trailing you.

            And
I traced that someone back to the Blue Room.

            I
wanted to know more. But I couldn't – the security there was the tightest I've
ever seen. I realized soon that the only way I'd be able to get information at
the Blue Room was to become a Blue Girl myself.

            It
was an unorthodox job, to be sure. And for anybody else, I'm not sure I'd have
been willing to do it. But by then I'd come to really care for you, really love
you. Like a sister. And I knew that I'd do whatever it took to keep you safe.

             I'd
used the skills I gained as a PI – spying, secrets – to start my own internal
investigation at the Blue Room.

            Here
is what I know.

            The
Blues cannot be trusted. Follow the money, and it goes all the way back to the
Tannenbaums. Your paternal grandmother recently lent an enormous sum of money
to Clarence Blue: the man she has always taken an interest in. They've been
financially entangled for years. Beware of them, all of them. They're
financially dependent on the people trying to kill you.

            The
man who was following you was my main client as a Blues Girl. Mr X. I never
learned his real name. He might be in the family himself; I wouldn't be
surprised. Be careful, Staci, be very careful. And never go anywhere near the
Blue Room.

            In
the family? Did she mean a Blue or a Tennenbaum?

           
I'm
so sorry not to be able to protect you, Staci. If I lied to you all these years
it was only out of love. I leave you one more object with which you can use to
protect you.

            Stay
safe, my love.

            Your
best friend,

            Rita

I open the box
automatically.

Inside,
shining up at me, there is a gun.