Vienna (6 page)

“What?”

Stupid!
“I'm sorry.” Her voice broke at last and she could hear herself inhaling loudly through the tears. “I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't kill anyone.”

Justine held her hands across the table. “Hush. I know it wasn't you, and I'm glad you found me.”

“Why?” Vienna kept her hands safely at her sides.

“When you came to the hotel room, you said a phrase. It sounded Latin. And then you said Grant—my boyfriend—was a poser.”

Vienna nodded.

“What did you say?”

“Sometimes it doesn't work when I only say or hear things.”

Justine frowned, pulling her hands back. “Then perhaps you read something that tipped you off?”

“He really was a liar?”

“Before he got his brains spilled at the base of my bathroom sink, Grant Eriksson was a bad boy. He'd never been to the Midwestern United States. He was born in Amsterdam, though he spent most of his life in San Francisco. He is—was—wanted in Munich in connection with the murder of an art dealer. His real name was David Andries.”

Follow the shape of the word. After a moment, Vienna shook her head. “I don't know that name. I don't read much news. I don't like how it feels.”

“But you knew he was pretending to be someone he wasn't?”

“Sometimes when I don't like people, I do mean things.”

“What mean thing did you do?”

“When he said he was from Nebraska, I remembered the trees.” Vienna paused long enough to roughly brush tears from her cheeks. She found the encyclopedia page she had seen earlier. “Dutch elm disease reached the United States in 1928, through a shipment of wood from the Netherlands to a furniture manufacturer in Ohio. From there it spread throughout the Midwest and South, annihilating entire populations of elm trees. The problem was exacerbated by a new strain of fungus, Ophiostoma novo-ulmi, which was recorded for the first time in North America in the 1940s.”

“That was the phrase,” Justine said. “Ophiostoma novo-ulma. I don't understand the connection to David Andries.”

James Hargrave answered. “Dutch elm disease. When I was a child in Missouri I remember the elm trees dying. The leaves turning from orange to brown to gray. It was a disaster.”

Justine leaned back in her chair, rubbing fingers over her eyes. “Grant said he loved the elm trees back in Nebraska, but they're all dead.”

Vienna read further. “Not all, I think, but many. Growing up there he must have heard about it.”

“He would have,” Hargrave said. “The disease has been woven into the mythos of Midwestern culture.”

Justine hissed between closed teeth. “Congratulations. You exposed him as a fraud in twenty seconds while I remained clueless the entire five weeks he was in my bed.”

“Don't feel bad,” Lord Davy said. “Vienna was faster than the Belgium police as well.” The two men next to him shifted in their chairs but said nothing. “I believe that answers your questions, Mr. Hargrave.”

“There is the matter of your earlier threats concerning Justine Am's career.”

Davy stood. “I doubt my client will pursue this and I can't proceed against her wishes. If the police have no objections I hope we might be excused.”

One of the policemen nodded, speaking in heavily accented English. “We have your passports. Affected parties will remain in Brussels. Given Lord Davy's word, I see no reason to issue bond for Miss Vienna.”

“Then we will take our leave. Vienna, I can drop you off at your flat.”

“No!”

“Vienna, we're finished here.”

“I don't want to go.”

“This is not the time—”

Justine interrupted, “She's exhausted and she's scared and she doesn't want to be alone. Can you blame her?”

“Then I must ask my colleagues in the Brussels police force to release her passport. I take full responsibility as to her whereabouts in London.”

Vienna looked frantically at Justine. The model used her voice trick. “It's four in the morning. You can't put her on a flight or take her through the Chunnel. She needs a bed and security.”

“You presume to speak for her?” Uncle Anson was doing that leaning thing again, only this time toward Justine. Of course she would agree to whatever he wanted.

“Someone sure as hell has to,” Justine said. She stood and turned to Hargrave. “Where are we staying?”

“Radisson SAS—the closest place that had the room we needed.”

Justine leaned right back at Lord Davy even as she spoke to Hargrave. “Get a room for Vienna.”

Hargrave closed his eyes and took a quick breath. He let it go in carefully enunciated words. “Justine, you cannot take this woman with you. The press is poised to eat you alive. They see you with her and they will carve you up.”

“I agree with Mr. Hargrave,” Lord Davy said.

“Breaks my heart.” Justine motioned to Vienna. “We have a car outside. Move.”

Vienna scampered around the table to Justine's side. It seemed the safest thing to do.

 

5

James attempted several conversations from the front passenger seat. Justine refused to take part. She didn't need to be told her career was shot to hell and her life was in hot pursuit. But she couldn't force any reaction; sealed in a cocoon of murdered lovers and moving statues.

Vienna sat next to her, wearing the god-awful blue pinafore. Staring at shifting constellations of city lights. She spoke to herself in a rushed whisper. “Eleven, twenty-four, sixty-five hundred and sixty-one.”

“What?” Justine asked.

“Three raised to the eighth power. It's the same as eighty-one squared. Bode's Galaxy.”

“Vienna?”

The girl spoke louder. “Sixty-five hundred and sixty-one. Two sixes and a five and a one. Five plus one gives six, making three sixes altogether. ‘Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six.'” The girl's eyes seemed to refocus. “Revelations.” She flashed a pitiful smile, as though fully aware of her incoherent rambling but unable to find the brake. “It refers to Domitian, Emperor of Rome from 69 to 96 AD.” Her sad smile faded away. “He banned mimes. He was afraid they would make fun of him.” She rocked in her seat, her gaze fading from reach. “Mime is Greek but no one knows what the word originally meant. The Greeks…” Eyes scanning left to right. “Houses of dried reed. The flames of Sardis. Bodies rotting in the sun. They're all dead. Remember the Athenians. Remember the Athenians. Remember the Athenians.”

Justine felt the hair on her forearms go prickly tight. She leaned toward her own window, ignoring the cold seeping in.
I should've let the scarred bastard take her.

Three card keys were waiting at the Radisson's front desk. James led them past a closed restaurant at the base of an atrium. A glass elevator, pasted to the side of the cavernous space, slid up the floors. Empty tables below shrank to abstract patterns. James went to his room without a word.

“Your room is next to mine, Vienna.” Justine pointed to the door.

Vienna didn't move. Her eyes were bright. “I'm not a child. I can take care of myself.”

“I know.”

“I don't want to be alone.”

It sounded like a sexual gambit to Justine. Who knew what it sounded like to Vienna. Justine felt sticky sand in her eyes. Dead tears and no sleep and no patience. She put her hand over the lizard tattoo. “Come on then.”

“I don't have bed clothes.”

“I have a spare nightshirt—at least I think it was forwarded.”

“I don't have a toothbrush.”

“Ring the desk.” It felt like a mistake the second she said it.

Vienna changed in the bathroom, emerging under a sleeveless cobalt tee that draped across her thin shoulders, down her modest chest to her knees.

Justine was surprised how handsome she was. Not dazzling, but well-proportioned for her lanky frame. Bookish in a way that many men found attractive. Large, clear eyes, freed from the hell glasses. Irises flecked brown-gold under the hotel's warm lights. Her tortured hair needed a machete and conditioner, but it had strong tints of red that could be accented. A little color for the cheeks—sunlight would do wonders there. Delicate wrists. A manicure …

Justine turned away
. I'm too tired to be codependent.
“I'm going to rinse off,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Ten minutes in the shower amounted to a technical knockout.
Weave and bob around the exhaustion all you want, but you won't be standing much longer.
Would Vienna expect sex? Maybe she's asleep? What if she isn't?
Doesn't matter
. Justine turned the water off.

Vienna was curled up on the left edge of the bed. Tiny under the king-sized spread.

Justine turned on the reading lamp before cutting the overhead lights. She knew she would never again cross any floor in the dark. Feet under the covers, she switched off the light.

“Did you really think I'd done it?” Vienna's voice was a scraping monotone.

Justine was too tired to construct acceptable lies. “I didn't know what to think. It was so wrong. So impossible. Like he'd been standing at the sink to shave or wash his face. And then someone just came in and shot him.”

“But you told the police it might have been me.”

“Yes.”

Vienna was silent.

“I shouldn't have.” Justine put a hand on Vienna's back. She felt the ragged breathing of tears.
She cries too much.
Was it Asperger's? Some of it fit—crying was often associated with autism—but Vienna failed to display several core symptoms.
The human condition is defined by having no definitions.
Another line from her med school days. “It's over. You need to sleep.”

“Okay.” The shaking slowly stilled.

Justine was left with the one thought she'd pushed away since Grant's murder.
You don't feel his absence.
She told herself it was because he turned out to be a liar and likely a killer as well. But that was beside the point. She was sorry he was dead, even if he was a bad man. But that was a long way from missing him.

Does that make me bad, too?

There was no answer, but finally facing the question somehow brought relief. Emotional knots loosened. Justine slipped into dreamless sleep.

She was alone when she awoke. The blue T-shirt folded at the foot of the bed.

“Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?” Her mother's wryest summation of bad news.

Justine showered and pulled an olive shirt and khaki capris from the closet. Urban camouflage for models. She was almost to the door when James knocked. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn't recommend it.”

“Why not?”

“Your dead lover isn't even cold, and there's a woman in your room calling the front desk for a toothbrush. For added fun, the ex turns out to have a five-star police record. My favorite headline so far is, ‘Lezzies Leave Loser.' Neanderthal elements of the British press have always been addicted to alliteration.”

Justine glared at him. “Since when have you given a rat's ass about gossip columns?”

“Since your career started swirling down the drain.”

“I need to go.”

“Why?”

“I have to find her.”

“Would you care to tell me and my splitting headache why?”

Impossible to explain. California sunshine washing over the lawns of Stanford; fear locked away behind a false smile. The children inside Felton Gables, imprisoned by something far more crushing than concrete walls. Justine's failure turning malignant, growing evermore bitter. “I don't have to justify myself to you.”

“You don't know where she lives.”

“You do.”

James shook his head. “The four dozen reporters outside have clouded my memory.”

“Fine. Go tell them I'll have a press conference at five.”

“Wrong answer. You need to disappear for several weeks.”

“Five o'clock. If they're waiting here they can't be following me. Square it with management.”

“You'll never find her. You don't even know her last name.”

“Don't ever sell me short.” Justine pressed toward the door. Hargrave surrendered with a show of open hands.

Justine had long ago learned to access kitchen exits:
lady in distress, please help.
She stepped into an alley a block away from the front door, breathing through her mouth as she marched past reeking Dumpsters.

Vienna's pinafore was the answer. It wasn't a fashion meltdown, it was a uniform. Since Europeans preferred male waiters, Vienna would be working at a pastry counter or coffee shop. Someplace close, in the tourist haunts of Lower Town. Justine couldn't see Vienna taking the bus, let alone driving. Start in the Grand Place.

Success in under thirty minutes. Vienna inside a gelato store, a sign on the door flipped to
FERMÉ
. There was a man pressed against the stainless counter, a Nikon DSLR in his right hand; lanyard looped to his knees. An oily black tattoo lay coiled on the back of his forearm, showing a series of swept curves tapering to points.

Vienna cowered against the wall. It seemed so familiar.

I hear the only reason she got accepted into med school is she does her professors. No way her test scores are legit. What a skank. I've got a buck-fifty, ask her if she swallows.

The past twisted inside Justine in a jagged feedback of rage. Only now it was Vienna, defenseless against a storm she couldn't see coming.

Justine was inside before the man had a chance to turn from Vienna. She grabbed the dangling lanyard, jerking the camera from the man's grasp. He turned to her, recognition widening his eyes.