Vienna (29 page)

“I have to help.” Vienna curtseyed (
remember your manners!
) and ran after Justine. She was embarrassed to hear a few shouts of laughter from the crowd. But they were speaking Icelandic, and she couldn't guess what they were saying.

The photo shoot dragged on for another three hours. When the camera wasn't clicking away, Justine's smile vanished into exhaustion. The photographer snapped his fingers at her and she smiled again. But it only looked like a smile.

“Prosopon.”

If I try, I can see how she really feels.
Like seeing a taste or smelling a color.

The afternoon waned before the last of the equipment was being packed away. Vienna watched the manikin being carried up the sweeping trail from the falls to the parking lot. Into a white lorry. The movers slammed the doors shut and the lorry pounded through gears in a cloud of blue diesel.

Not the original manikin, but the duplicate.
It had to be that way because when the photographs were published in Justine's book, they would show the fakes. That way, if the fakes were discovered, the photographs could be enhanced and used as evidence that the copies predated the project, and questions would be directed elsewhere. Still, they had to use the real manikins until the last possible moment because every minute would be needed to perfect the duplicate.

Vienna was on the verge of telling Justine this when she realized it wouldn't work. The change from real to duplicate had been recorded within the photographer's portfolios stored on Justine's computer. The computer's memory would have to be destroyed. And even that wouldn't be enough if the killer discovered that Justine knew the truth. She would have to be destroyed as well.

It was the nightmare all over again: Justine's blood spreading across a white floor and no way to stop it. But Vienna had to take care of it herself because words could be bent into something less true and she never got words right anyway. She stepped closer to Justine, wondering if that counted as an apology for keeping secrets.

“You're warm,” Justine said. Vienna liked that.

Haldor stayed until they were ready to leave. Justine took him to the side and spoke to him for several minutes. He turned abruptly away and went to his car without a word.

“What an absolutely, amazingly crappy day,” was Justine's only comment.

Vienna touched Justine's shoulder. Was that right for something like this? People were watching. She tried to keep words from rushing by like water over Gullfoss. “Now it's my turn to tell you to go to bed?”

Justine leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. “Home and a quick dinner and I shall follow your advice.” People were taking pictures but it no longer seemed important.

Morning brought the newly familiar routine of sneaking out of bed while Justine slept. Vienna went to the hotel's restaurant. Rain turning the windows bottle green. The morning paper had a picture of her and Justine, standing together, their foreheads touching.
Everyone can see it!
Except … the picture didn't look so bad. Vienna didn't look stupid or ugly. Maybe a little skinny behind her glasses, but that sort of looked okay. Justine was dazzling, of course. Vienna went through the paper, looking for more pictures.

The breakfast waiter spoke as if Vienna was an old friend. “How are you today, Miss Vienna?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

Something different behind the short exchange. Vienna didn't like it.

Justine appeared as Vienna was still eating; an early arrival for her. “Good morning.” Her voice was light.

“Hello.”

“I don't suppose you checked the blogsphere this morning?”

Vienna shook her head.

“Jordan Farquar once again turned his jaundiced gaze in our direction. He blasted Igor Czasky for keeping me in employ. From where he stands it is a gross mistake.”

“Will you lose your job?”

Justine shook her head. “Jordan should have had a little chat with Emily Holt before setting fingers to keyboard. If Americans love seeing their heroes cut down, they'll never stomach a cheap shot against the innocent. Jordan was doing fine smacking me around, but last night he called you a degenerate.”

“Why?”

“Because he's a vicious leach and too arrogant to realize his mistake. It's early morning in the States but by sunrise, hating Jordan Farquar will be a national obsession.”

“Why didn't this happen before?”

“Because now his victims can stand behind poor Vienna, who isn't quite right in the head. Congratulations, you're a hero.”

“I don't want everyone talking about me.”

“There's no stopping it.”

“You have to!” The newspaper picture didn't make up for this!

Justine shook her head. “The media possesses remorseless momentum.
Frontline
is doing a segment on the science of autism next week. Pushed up the schedule by a month.”

“
Frontline
?”

“A news show in America.”

“What should I do?”

“Accept it in good grace. Heaven knows it would be a welcome departure from the norm.”

Vienna felt anger stirring again.
Why is she so flippant?

Justine laughed quietly. “Poor little Storm Cloud. But your Brussels apartment with its seamless floor will never do. If bad things happen outside, at least you're free to feel them.”

“I want to go home anyway.”

“Too bad. I want you with me.”

“That's kidnapping.”

“Vienna, I can't physically keep you here if you really want to go.”

“I have no money.”

“I can call Lord Davy and transfer several hundred thousand euros into an account under your name, if you wish.”

Vienna set her fork down too loudly, then took a deep breath. “If I asked you to skip the last pictures for the Clay to Flesh book, would you?”

“Yes, if you had reason.”

Vienna thought this over. It fit the morning's newly minted Special Theory of Justine.
Use every trick to get what I want
. “I sent an e-mail to Lord Davy, like you asked.”
I can play that game better than you.

“We should hear back soon.”

Vienna was on the verge of explaining that Justine's methods were unnecessarily complex when four men entered the dining room. Policemen with tired, sad faces. She knew in an instant who they were looking for.

 

23

Haldor Steffansson had been shot an inch under his left eye, the bullet entering at the precise angle to bisect his left internal carotid artery. His life tapped out; a thickening pool flowing around a flamboyant, two-handed sword.

His manikin had suffered a similar fate, her carved beauty ripped apart. In the drying blood and splintered wood, the police saw a line running from David Andries to Haldor Stefansson. It passed straight through Justine Am.

After a short account of the murder, Vienna was taken to a separate room. Two officers remained with Justine, embarking with little enthusiasm on three hours of questioning. Justine was too worried about Vienna to pay any attention to their bullying and begging.

Eventually Vienna was ushered back in, apparently with the idea the women might be induced to trip over each other's story. Justine was amused to see how exasperated Vienna's questioners looked.

Within a few minutes, the broad-shouldered man Justine had seen at the airport entered the room and took up the battle. Clean-shaven with a jaw like Clark Kent stepping from a phone booth. His black, crew-cut hair stood at attention. A good deal of rank was pinned to his chest. The top of a tattoo peeked from the collar of his uniform sweater; a ship's silhouette. He introduced himself as Olifur and apologized for the questioning. “It's required by the paperwork drones.” He held up a form as if to prove the point, but Justine had no doubt he'd read every word.

“There are a woman's prints on the manikin pieces,” he continued. “Even the inside.” His English was more American than British.

“Justine left with Haldor and I took the statue apart,” Vienna said. “I didn't hurt it.”

“But it's possible you did something to the statue that led to Haldor's murder. The way it was torn apart points to something placed inside.”

The half accusation flirted with the truth, but under pressure, Vienna's rigid thought process could only target the direct question. “If I had something of value, why hide it in Haldor's house?” she said. “I was unlikely to ever go there again. And if I had anything valuable, I would have been the easier target.”

Vienna rocked in her chair, unimpressed with her own line of reasoning. “It would make more sense that I became jealous of Haldor and arranged to have him killed.” Her face brightened. “You see? My assassin was told to take apart the manikin in order to remove my fingerprints. But after shooting Haldor, the killer panicked and left.” She smiled.

Jaws clinched around the room, although Olifur appeared ready to return Vienna's smile. “You have no money and you've never been to Iceland. You would hardly know how to contact an assassin under such circumstances.”

“Then maybe something was inside the statue and I stole it,” Vienna said.

Holy flipping shit.
Justine's heartbeat had to be loud enough to hear.

Olifur did smile at that. “Then Haldor would have been killed long ago. He has owned the statue for eight years. There would have been plenty of chances to break into his house while he was on tour.”

“But—”

The chief held up his hand to cut her off. “You're not a suspect, Miss Vienna, and neither is Miss Am. Miss Am was seen in the hotel kitchen last night, and your rental car's engine was too cold to have traveled in the last eight hours. Nonetheless a man is dead, and no one believes it's coincidence after the death of David Andries.”

Justine let a silent breath slip between tight lips. Either Vienna had just gotten unbelievably lucky, or she'd played the cop with virtuoso skill. Time to commandeer the conversation before another heart attack twist. “There's another possibility.”

“Yes?”

How much was safe to say? “Perhaps I have picked up a stalker who doesn't appreciate competition.”

“The thought occurred to us as well as the FBI and Interpol. It explains much, with the glaring exception of the unharmed woman sitting next to you.”

Justine shook her head. “I don't mean to sound sexist, but the fact that Vienna is female might make all the difference in the world. Most men would consider a second woman as fantasy fulfillment rather than competition.”

“Also something we considered; with the conclusion that if this theory is correct, Vienna is in considerable danger. It's possible she's being saved for some sexually violent act, likely carried out in your presence. Computer profiles predict such behavior.”

Justine looked sharply at the man.
Why is he trying to scare me?

Olifur leaned back in his chair. “You should know that Lord Anson Davy is worried as well; hence our exchanged glance at the Keflavík terminal.” Olifur waved to an underling in a gesture Justine interpreted as “coffee.” “Davy doesn't accept the stalker theory, though I think it's probable.”

“How do you know him?” Justine asked.
How closely is Davy having us watched?

“Lord Davy is an old friend.” Which told Justine nothing. “He mentioned by way of helping establish Vienna's alibi that Vienna had sent a curious e-mail last night. Problem is, I don't like curious things when a man has been killed.” He showed a tight smile when Vienna jerked forward to listen. “He shoots, he scores. Now then, Miss Vienna, what did you ask him?”

“I asked where Empress Sisi was murdered.”

The man's eyes narrowed. “He acted as if you'd been spying on the queen.”

“Does Lord Davy have reason to be worried?” Justine cut in. “Were we followed when we entered the country?”

“If you were, it was either by someone with great skill or someone who knew your itinerary well enough to give you a long lead. I don't think it's likely.” Black coffee appeared on the table beside him. “I'm tempted to revoke your passports until we know the score.” He sipped at the steaming cup.

“Davy is the one keeping secrets. Vienna told you the truth about the e-mail. I can retrieve it if you wish.”

“I get the feeling Lord Davy would be upset if it were passed around the station.”

“If you cover for him, you have no grounds to detain us.”

“I could make something up, based on Miss Vienna's fairy tale if nothing else.”

Justine shook her head. “We're leaving for Austria the day after tomorrow. After that we will not be your concern.”

“My concern might extend beyond my jurisdiction, all the way to the safety of two women caught in a bloody tangle.”

“We've told you everything. We don't know who killed Haldor or Andries.” Or Sinoro. Or Dardonelle.

“I believe you, as far as that goes.” He paused. “I'd bet my pension something has you scared.” Another long sip. “If you are being coerced by threats to a friend or family member, we can protect your loved ones. Playing this game will only get more people killed.”

“No one is being threatened.”

“Then I don't understand.…” The man's voice trailed off. He tapped the table with his index finger. The sound of rain blowing against windows. Olifur's finger stopped and Justine looked up to see that he was staring at her. “It's us, isn't it? The police. Despite the fact that we only just met. How can that be?” His eyes widened. “Not the police. Higher up. Conspiracies between powerful people.”

Justine tried to keep her gaze level, but it wasn't enough.

“Lord Davy's kind of power. He has no authority here, but our friendship has you shadowboxing.”