The Hollow Girl (12 page)

“All I know is that if something looks like a setup, and smells like a setup, and tastes like a setup, it’s a—”

“My daughter would never do something like this to us,” she repeated.

“But the Hollow Girl might.”

Nancy opened her mouth, squeezed her eyes into angry slits, clenched her fists, and tensed her body as if to pounce. I felt myself flinch, but the attack never came. My words had finally seemed to penetrate her defenses. She slumped her shoulders, turning away from me.

“But why would she do it, Moe?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to up the stakes or change the dynamics between you and her and her father. Maybe she just got bored and wants to try another stunt—sorry, I mean a different type of performance art. Look, Nancy, I’ve got enough trouble walking the high wire with my own daughter. I’m no expert. I’m not the person with the answers. I’m just giving you my opinion about what I saw at her apartment. You guys are a complicated bunch.”

Nancy Lustig let out an exhausted sigh, “Well, if what you say is right, at least she’s safe then. I mean, she’s not really missing. I just wonder what she’s really up to.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Where’s your ex now?”

She faced me again. “Home.”

“I think I better go have a talk with him. With your permission, of course. I work for you.”

“Go,” she said. “It’s a good idea. He should hear what you have to say before he calls out the National Guard. You don’t know Julian. He can be … . Let’s just say he can overreact. I’ll call ahead to tell him you’re coming. If you’re right, and I’m still dubious that you are, Sloane wants us to panic. I’m weary of it, Moe, of the drama. I’m weary of the fencing, of the thrust and parry. I don’t want to play anymore. So go talk to Julian, but … come back when you’re done, please.”

“I can’t.”

“Because we—”

“Because we kissed? No. It should be why, but it isn’t. After I talk to Julian, there’s someone else who needs some talking to, maybe something a little stronger than talk.”

Her eyes got big at that. “You’re not going to hurt anyone, are you?”

“Scare, not hurt. I’ve done enough hurting. It may not even come down to scaring. Money might do the trick. It usually does. And besides, I can’t avoid the cops forever. I’m gonna have to go into the 9th Precinct and clear some things up.”

She clutched my forearm as I made to walk past her.

“I’ll call,” I said, brushing her hair back, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

She let go of me, seeming to understand that we had gone as far as I was willing to let things go. I was glad one of us understood something about what we were doing, because I sure as hell didn’t.

New Mexico called itself the Land of Enchantment. Long Island was more like the land of endless strip malls surrounding pockets of wretched excess. I think Nassau County’s motto is In Shopping We Trust. Not as catchy as the Land of Enchantment, I know, but probably more accurate. It’s no state secret that I’ve never cared much for the island, and none of my experiences out here had done anything to disabuse me of my distaste for it. Most of my troubles on Long Island had been with the rich and the dead. The rich had been a varied lot; some weren’t even rich, exactly. Some were semi-rich or had-been-rich or desperate-to-be-rich, but they were all money drunk. The dead were different. It’s a lovely lie that we’re all created equal. We are, however, all just the same in death. Liberté. Egalité. Fraternité. Mortalité. The French almost got it right. Almost.

While Nancy’s house made a statement about open design and the melding of exterior and interior spaces, the only statement Julian Cantor’s house made was, “You better fuckin’ look at me.” I looked. I had to look because I couldn’t quite believe you could pack that much tastelessness into one structure. It was a muscular monstrosity of brick and stone, columns, concrete, and clapboards. It wasn’t quite one of those McMansions that had sprung up all about the place. McMansions were more bland than ugly. Mostly they were too big for their lots and too much a matter of vinyl siding and silliness than of distinction. Cantor’s house was a lot of things—bland not among them.

I pulled up the cobblestone driveway and parked under the triangular, capped portico that hung off the front of the house like a grandiose afterthought. The portico was held up by two massive columns that must have been pilfered from the set of
Gone with the Wind
. I noticed P EYE 7’s maroon BMW parked further down the driveway. When I got out of my car, the front door to the house opened. Only it wasn’t Julian Cantor who came to greet me.

“You must be Mr. Prager,” she said, holding her delicate hand out to me.

I shook it. “Moe Prager, yes.”

“I’m Julian’s wife, Alexandra.”

She was a vision. Think trophy wife. No, think “trophy for first place” wife. She was what models looked like on magazine covers, only breathing and moving. A woman of about thirty, she had long flowing dark red hair, flawless creamy skin, a perfect nose, sculpted cheekbones, and deep green eyes. She was svelte but not too thin, and her legs seemed to reach from the floor to my eyeballs. She was dressed in a white sweater and black slacks. She had to be Nancy Lustig’s worst nightmare. Nancy had turned herself into a very handsome and attractive woman indeed, but Alexandra was something much beyond that. I had only ever met one other woman with the same sort of otherworldly beauty, and that was thirty years ago. I didn’t like thinking about her or what had become of her.

Katerina Brightman had been married to an up-and-coming politician, Steven Brightman, whose career I helped rescue from the slush pile of once promising failures. Brightman had been cleared by the cops in connection with the disappearance of a young intern named Moira Heaton. He had, however, been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion. My initial investigation uncovered the fact that Moira had been murdered by a vicious serial killer already in police custody. In the end, though, I’d only discovered what I’d been misled to discover by a trail of false bread crumbs. The truth of what had actually happened to Moira was far more chilling. And when, out of wounded pride and vanity, I used Katerina to punish Steven Brightman for playing me as a fool, I set in motion a series of events that led to more murder and ruined several lives, Katerina’s first of all.

Alexandra let go of my hand and gestured to the open door. “Come in. I should let you know that Julian is not alone.”

“I can see that,” I said, pointing at the BMW. “007 is here.”

She giggled. “Vincent is a bit of a clod, but he’s sweet.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I should also warn you that Julian is in a cross mood.”

“I appreciate the heads-up. I kinda figured he would be. Daughters do that to their fathers.”

She smiled coyly. “Yes, we do. It is in the nature of fathers and daughters.”

“And mothers.”

“But in a different way. I know that Siobhan and Nancy have a very problematic relationship. It is not so different with my mother.”

“Alexandra, somehow I doubt that beauty was at the center of the battles between you and your mother.”

“You would be surprised, Mr. Prager, what can come between mothers and daughters.”

The interior of the house wasn’t nearly as unrelenting as the outside. I supposed visitors had Alexandra to thank for that. While I wouldn’t exactly call the interior design feminine, it was softer and more welcoming than the hard-nosed exterior. Although it was an Indian summer day, there was a fire going in the stone fireplace. Burning logs, the universal symbol of welcome.

“Julian’s study is through the great room, up the half flight of steps, and then to the left. I will leave you men to your business.”

And with that, Alexandra Cantor headed in the other direction. I had manners enough not to watch her as she walked away. Manners, and more than a little willpower.

Julian’s study was something out of Dickens. Two of the walls were dedicated to built-in shelves lined with leather-bound books, and another wall was devoted to fox hunting scenes and landscapes. His desk was massive, as if honed out of a hunk of sequoia. There were green leather wing chairs, plush green carpeting, an oversized globe to one side of the grand desk, and a brass armillary with a rather threatening-looking arrow sticking out of it to the other side. It seemed a perfect place for the poor to come begging alms. A perfect place for them to be thrown out of. Cantor was seated behind his desk. Vincent, P EYE 7, was pacing about, a drink in hand.

“Prager, this is—”

“Vincent, your chief investigator,” I interrupted the lawyer. With men like Julian Cantor, you had to dissuade them from bullying you right up front or they’d never stop.

Cantor shook his head. “As I was saying, this is Vincent Brock. And as you’ve surmised, he works for me. I take it you two have met.”

“Sort of.” I gave Brock’s hand a perfunctory shake. He was about as thrilled with me as I was with him, which was to say not at all.

“That was real cute, that thing you pulled with the cop at Hanover Square,” Vincent said, angry and spoiling for revenge. He’d been embarrassed. Men detest being embarrassed almost more than anything else. I didn’t much care for it myself, but cancer treatment is a pretty humbling experience. If you can’t get over the embarrassment of it, it will kill you before the disease. Because, let me tell you, a whole lot of embarrassing situations came with my treatments. Hair loss and constant nausea being the least of it.

“Yeah, well, you shoulda just introduced yourself that night at Grogan’s instead of trying to play James Bond.”

Vincent’s face turned red. Uh oh, I’d done it again, embarrassed him in front of his employer. Apparently, he hadn’t told Cantor about how he had tried to tail me the night I met Anthony Rizzo at the bar.

Cantor barked at his investigator, “What’s Prager going on about?”

I figured I’d better save Vincent’s tush before he got embarrassed enough to shoot me. “Nothing, Mr. Cantor. It’s nothing, just a little stuff between professionals.”

Vincent looked relieved, almost thankful, but Cantor didn’t look especially happy.

“Well, I’m glad you gentlemen have had your fun, but what about my daughter? Nancy told me you think this is all some sort of charade. Is that right, Prager?”

“I take it you’ve seen the photos and Vincent here has told you what a mess the apartment was?”

“I have seen your photos and his,” the lawyer said. “To me it looks like Hiroshima the day after, not like a charade.”

“That’s the idea. Somebody wanted to get a rise out of you and they did. Your ex reacted the same way, the way you were meant to react.”

“And you think this somebody is my daughter?” Cantor asked. He knew the answer.

Why did people do that, ask questions they already knew the answers to? It made me nuts, but I kept calm and repeated what I had told Nancy about my cop-sense, about how nothing seemed to have been stolen, about how a key had been used on the front door. “Look, Mr. Cantor, whoever did that to Siobhan’s apartment was good at destroying things, but not at recreating a real crime scene. If you’d been to as many crime scenes as me, you’d understand.”

Cantor turned to his man. “What do you think?”

“Maybe I don’t agree that it was your girl who did it, but Prager’s got a point. The door wasn’t jimmied and the place was a mess, but a kind of pointless mess. I guess it did feel kind of staged.”

The lawyer stood and pounded his fists on top of the desk. “So where the fuck is my daughter?”

I turned my palms up. “That I can’t tell you, Mr. Cantor. But Nancy didn’t tell me to stop digging, so I won’t.”

“Vincent, give Prager your card. You help Prager any way you can.”

“But—”

Cantor didn’t have to say a word because the look on his face said it all. Vincent stopped his protest in order to save his job. He handed me a card. I handed him one of mine. Except for the bowing, it was like a Japanese business meeting. I didn’t think we were going to be friends, but I also didn’t need animosity screwing things up. It wasn’t karma. It was much simpler than that. A PI’s job was hard enough without having people actively working against him. Detectives Frovarp and Shulze were probably already looking for an excuse to fuck with me, and I didn’t need or want Vincent working to queer things. I had enough blood on my hands because of embarrassment and acting out of a stupid sense of pride. The focus here needed to be on Siobhan, and not on some snit between Vincent and me.

“I’ve gotta go talk to the detectives at the 9th Precinct,” I said. “But I also need to have a talk with Anthony Rizzo—”

“One of the doormen at your daughter’s building,” Vincent finished my sentence. Good, I thought, at least this guy wasn’t totally incompetent. I’d thrown him a softball and he’d hit it out of the park in front of his boss.

“Yeah, he and Siobhan were friends.” I didn’t explain further. “I think he knows more about all of this than he’s saying. So when I go talk to the cops, maybe Vincent can have a friendly chat with Rizzo.”

But Vincent suddenly didn’t look so good. I think he’d misunderstood what I meant by a friendly chat. Vincent wasn’t a muscle work kind of guy. Like I said, he probably spent his days investigating sidewalk cracks and interviewing people whose wrong leg had been amputated. So I came to his aid again.

“It’ll be easy,” I said. “Rizzo’s vain and he’s addicted to cash. Just bring a pocket full of twenties with you and treat him like Pavlov’s dog. You’ll have him salivating at the sound of the bell in no time.”

“What?”

“You weren’t a psych major, huh?”

“Never mind.” Cantor stomped around his desk. He pointed at Vincent. “You do what Prager says. Prager, you find what my daughter’s up to.”

I didn’t think the timing was right to remind Julian Cantor that I wasn’t working for him, so I nodded to Vincent that we should leave together. As my father might have said, Vincent was dumb, but he wasn’t stupid. He got my hint and followed me out of Cantor’s study. Alexandra wasn’t there to bid us adieu, which was just as well. The fewer distractions, the better.