by Ingrid Thoft
“You look prosperous,” Fina said.
He grinned. “So.” He settled back into the couch and pulled his jacket across his wide stomach. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we can’t locate Rand’s wife, Melanie.”
Mark cocked an eyebrow. “I hadn’t.”
“Well, she’s dropped out of sight, and we’re starting to worry.”
“The Ludlows are worried about something?”
“Not worried exactly, but concerned. You know everything that goes on in this town. I thought if there’s something to hear, you’d have heard it.” Fina had yet to meet a man who didn’t fall for this line, even the jaded, savvy ones. “Here’s a picture,” she said, and reached into her bag.
Mark laughed. “I know what she looks like, Fina.”
“I know, but it might help jog your memory.”
Mark took the picture and studied it for a moment. “Your brother never changes. None of them do. Never lose their hair or gain any weight.”
“They all have weird alpha male eating disorders. Tons of protein, wheatgrass smoothies, hours on the rowing machine. Trust me, they’re trim, but miserable.”
Mark kept looking at it. “I haven’t heard anything, but I could ask Vanessa. You know she can be discreet.”
She has to be, Fina thought, given that she’s married to a criminal.
The waitress returned with a full tray. She gracefully dipped down to her knees, a move that smacked of strip club, and balanced the tray on the edge of the coffee table. She slid a large plate with a slab of steak, fingerling potatoes, and a bloodred tomato salad in front of Mark. Next to it, she placed a jar of ketchup and a cup of black coffee. Fina took the glass of water she was offered and cradled it between her hands. She waited for the waitress to leave.
“This may just be some tantrum on Melanie’s part,” Fina said.
“Sure, I understand.” Mark cut a large piece of steak, and Fina watched the pale pink juices dribble onto the plate before he popped it into his mouth. “How about I let you know if I hear anything?”
“That would be great. I appreciate it.” Fina sat back in her chair and sipped her drink. She didn’t want to spend any more time schmoozing than she had to, but just like the business world, the world of crime and punishment has its rules of etiquette. “So how are Vanessa and the kids?” she inquired politely.
Thereby followed a fifteen-minute monologue about little Bobby’s recent triumph on the soccer field, an exploit that a casual listener might have mistaken for a World Cup final given Mark’s play-by-play description. Fina’s eyes were just starting to glaze over when Mark took the last bite of tomato and wiped his hands with his napkin.
“It’s always good to see you, Fina,” he said, dismissing her.
“You too. Thanks for keeping your ear to the ground.”
Fina drained her water and slipped the photo into her bag.
Mark covered her hand with his. “You need anything, you’ll let me know?”
Sometimes, Mark seemed like such a caricature that Fina had trouble taking him seriously, but then she’d remember that he was rumored to be responsible for a few murders. There was nothing funny about him.
“Of course. I appreciate the offer. Give my love to Vanessa and the kids.”
The bodyguards parted like the Red Sea, and she walked toward the escalator. She knew that Mark and his goons were examining her butt, so she added an extra little swing to give them a thrill.
The red-faced uakari monkey was the subject of this episode of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Bev smoothed the blanket over Chester, sat down in the recliner, and picked up a copy of Southern Living magazine. She took off her shoes and rotated her ankles, which were sore. The nurses had just changed shifts, and the replacement peeked in to check on Chester.
“He’s fine,” Bev said without looking up from her magazine. “I’ll let you know if he needs anything.”
The young woman went down the hall in the direction of the small bedroom that had become the base for all the home health care workers. Initially, Bev considered putting Chester’s hospital bed there, but it would have left space for little else. Instead, she pushed back the furniture in the living room and that became his room. One of the muscular male nurses had moved a TV in and placed it on a side table. Bev wasn’t a big fan of TV, but Chester seemed to enjoy the nature and history programs, and it was better than having him staring into space for hours on end.
She supposed they could move and get more space, maybe someplace out in the suburbs, but Bev loved their Beacon Hill condo. The white stone exterior and curlicue railings reminded her ever so slightly of her childhood in the South. Not the same as Mississippi, obviously, but it was the best she could do.
She also didn’t want to move for fear of what that might signal to Chester. If they left their cramped, many-storied home in the heart of the city, it would be a sort of surrender, giving in to the massive stroke that had robbed Chester of his faculties. And Bev didn’t care what the doctors said; he was in there, somewhere, garnering strength to reemerge. As long as they stayed on Beacon Hill, there was hope that he would improve, and one day they’d stroll hand-in-hand through the Public Garden.
A cell phone rang, and Bev dug into her large leather purse and checked the number. It was Janie, her office manager.
“Yes, dear? What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Mrs. Duprey, but I thought I should call.”
“Of course, it’s no bother. Just let me scoot into the other room. I don’t want to disturb Mr. Duprey.” Bev held the phone against her chest and patted Chester’s hand, which was thin and delicate like tissue paper. “I’ll be right back, sugar.”
“What is it, Janie?” She asked once she had closed the kitchen door.
“I have a client who wants to see Molly tonight, but she’s not available. I tried to convince him to see someone else, but he’s throwing a tantrum.”
“Well, we don’t like that, do we? No tantrums allowed.”
“Nope, and normally I would tell him to be in touch when he could control himself, but I noticed that there’s a flag in his file.”
“What kind of flag?”
“Just a note that you should be contacted if anything out of the ordinary happens with him.”
“What’s his client number?” Bev looked at her reflection in the kitchen window. Her hair was looking a little more gray than silver. She’d have to see to that.
“Seven-four-six-eight.”
Bev stopped running her hand through her hair. “You were right to call me. He’s an unusual and important client. Give me Molly’s number, would you, darling? I’m going to call her and see what I can arrange.”
Bev called Molly and convinced her that one appointment at twice her usual rate was a fair trade for missing her favorite reality TV show.
“You take good care of him,” Bev instructed.
“Yes, ma’am.” Bev taught her girls Southern manners even if they had grown up in Alaska. Everything went more smoothly when there was a measure of civility.
Bev hung up and riffled through the cabinet. She pulled out a bag of chocolate chip cookies and popped a few in her mouth. She knew she shouldn’t, but between Chester and the business, the stress was doing her in.
Fina spent the day pounding the pavement, trying to meet face-to-face with everyone in Melanie’s life and ferret out where she might be. Melanie knew a lot of people, and Fina’s lower back was aching by the end of the day. She went home to Nanny’s, soaked in a hot bath, and was drying off when her phone rang.
“Hi, Milloy.”
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I’ll be outside in five.”
Fina paused and glanced around as if she might find some illuminating information on the bathroom walls.
&nb
sp; Milloy sighed. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”
“Of course I didn’t forget. I’m just finishing up getting ready. Where are we going again?” Fina dropped her towel, dashed into the bedroom, and began pulling clothes from the closet. “Hamersley’s?”
“No, Davio’s. It’s my mom’s favorite.”
“Right, of course. I’ll see you soon.” Fina threw the phone onto the bed and pulled on a pencil skirt and a silk blouse, released her hair from its messy updo, swiped on some lipstick, and carried a purse, shoes, and some earrings with her into the elevator.
Milloy’s parents visited a couple of times a year from Oakland, and during the more recent visits, Fina had done duty as his dinner companion. They didn’t explicitly claim they were dating, but they didn’t disabuse Milloy’s mother, in particular, of the notion that they were romantically entangled. Fina suspected that his father was onto their ruse, but probably agreed that keeping his wife happy was worth the subterfuge. Milloy’s mom was a Chinese immigrant who wanted her son to find a nice girl and start making babies. At least with a woman by his side, she could cling to the possibility. Fina was ideally suited to the job; she didn’t have any trouble playacting, and she could hold her own in a fancy restaurant and make casual conversation. And she liked helping Milloy; he always did the same for her.
Two and a half hours later, stuffed with lobster bisque, duck confit risotto, tiramisu, and red wine, Fina and Milloy were back on Nanny’s blue velvet couch.
“Are you up for a field trip?” Fina asked Milloy as he skipped through the channels.
“What do you have in mind?”
“It’s a long shot, but I can’t just sit around doing nothing. Let’s poke around at Crystal,” she said, naming a huge nightclub popular with a weird cross section of people, including rich kids looking for trouble, gangsters, and cougars on the prowl. She knew that Melanie had been there on a few boozy girls’ nights out. Fina didn’t think she frequented the place, but if you were looking for dirt, Crystal was a good place to start.
“There’s nothing on. Sure, why not?”
Fina went into the bedroom and changed out of her more conservative dinner attire into a tight black dress that skimmed the top of her knees. She slutted it up a little with strappy high heels, smoky eye makeup, and a few strands of cheap necklaces. She liked to think that she could pass for midtwenties and shave ten years off her age with the proper clothes and dim lighting, but it may have been her own faltering eyesight that allowed her that illusion. She knew she looked good, but it wouldn’t be too long before the dreaded suffix was added to that assessment: for her age.
Milloy was perfectly dressed in his well-fitted suit. He didn’t have to fiddle with his age or degree of cheapness in order to get into the club; he exuded mystery. Milloy was very handsome, and his Chinese heritage always made people ask, “What are you?” a question that never failed to irritate him. “I’m human, man,” was his standard response.
At the club, he turned his keys over to the valet, gave Fina his elbow, and they walked to the front of the line outside of Crystal. The bouncer was short and overmuscled, each thigh the size of a toddler. He looked them over, and when he hesitated, Fina pulled on Milloy’s arm.
“This is a joke. Let’s go to Club 100,” she said.
The Neanderthal looked anxious for a moment. Milloy shrugged, and they turned away. The bouncer reached for the velvet rope and unhooked the clasp. They walked through the door. Nothing like seeming uninterested to make you interesting.
Crystal looked small from the outside, but actually stretched all the way from the street to the Mass Pike, which butted up behind it. The space had a low ceiling and was painted black, which contributed to the tunnel-like feel. It was dominated by the dance floor and anchored by the DJ’s setup. A huge bar spanned the left side of the room, and tables littered the right side. There was a staircase near the entrance that led to the VIP section.
Milloy and Fina parted company so she could snoop and he could scoop. She made her way through the crush of bodies and found a bartender who wasn’t completely besieged by underage girls ordering fruity drinks.
“Can I get a Sam Adams?” She held a twenty between two fingers, and the bartender reached behind the bar, pulled out a bottle, and popped off the top.
“Ten bucks,” he yelled over the din.
“Jesus,” Fina said. She laid the twenty on the bar. “Is Willie here tonight?” Willie Kendrick was one of Fina’s go-to guys for reliable information of dubious provenance.
The bartender started mixing a drink for the young guy who had muscled in next to her. “Ask Dante.” He looked up at the VIP section. “He’s upstairs.”
“Thanks. Keep the change.”
Fina took her beer and ran the gauntlet through the crowd. At the top of the stairs, she asked for Dante and watched as a neckless bouncer walked over to the largest table in the corner and spoke to a young man seated there. She’d heard of Dante Trimonti, but hadn’t had the pleasure of his acquaintance. He had a reputation as a businessman (read: pimp) on the rise who was ruthless, crazy, and in love with himself.
Dante was ensconced in the circular booth with two girls on either side, like a young Hugh Hefner. A discussion between him and the bouncer ensued, and long stares were leveled in Fina’s direction. She nursed her beer, and after a few minutes, the bouncer came back and beckoned her into the VIP area. As she approached the table, the four young women slid out and scattered like birds. She sat down at the edge of the booth and looked at Dante. He was probably in his early twenties and was handsome, but in an oily way. His hair was slicked back and his T-shirt clung to his pecs. He raised his arms and spread them across the back of the booth, providing a glimpse of his abs, which were hair-free and sculpted. He grinned at her.
“You like what you see?”
“I bet you work out a lot.”
“I don’t get this way by sitting on my ass.”
“Nope.”
Dante leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “You’re a little old for what I’m looking for.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I mean, maybe you could do the naughty soccer mom thing, but . . .” He squinted at Fina. “You got a nice rack.” He raised his glass in a toast to her boobs.
“Yeah, I’m actually not looking for a job.”
Dante frowned slightly. “What are you looking for?”
“Willie.”
“He’s not here, sweetheart.”
“Where is he?”
“None of your business.”
“Hmmm.”
“We’re done,” Dante said, and tipped his head toward a bouncer who began to approach the table.
“Hold on a sec,” Fina said, waving away the bouncer. “How about her?” She pulled out the family photo of Rand, Melanie, and Haley and placed it on the table. She pointed at Melanie.
Dante looked at the picture. There was the briefest flicker of a question mark on his face, which quickly morphed into a scowl.
“This isn’t the goddamn lost and found.” He pushed the picture away dismissively and scanned the room.
“Dante—can I call you Dante?—I’m asking you because you’re in the know. Everyone says that if something is going on, you know about it.” The young, dumb ones were highly susceptible to flattery, too.
He straightened up at the compliment and then reached down and adjusted himself. “Maybe you’re a cop.”
“I’m not.” Fina reached into her bag and pulled out her license. “I’m a private investigator.” She handed it to him, and he studied it for a moment.
“Josefina Ludlow. You related to that lawyer?”
“I’m related to all of them.”
“I know about your pops.”
“Yeah, everybody does. I’m not looking to make trouble for you, and I don�
��t care about your business.” Fina straightened the picture on the table. “This woman is missing. People care about her and are looking for her.”
Dante flicked the picture toward her with his fingernail. “Can’t help, Josefina Ludlow.”
Fina returned the picture to her bag. “Got it. If you see her . . .” She handed him her card.
He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Now, why would I do that?”
“Because I know lots of people, and someday, I might be able to do you a favor.”
“You’d do a favor for a guy like me?”
Fina shrugged, pulled her hand away, and slid out of the booth.
Downstairs, she did a cursory search for Milloy, and in the process was cornered by an overeager BU student. Ahmad from Saudi Arabia invited her back to his penthouse apartment at the Ritz, where she could snort some blow and give him a blow job. Tough offer to turn down, but Fina took a rain check and left without Milloy.
The next night, Fina sat in her car in front of Rand’s house waiting for Milloy. It was nine P.M., and she’d spent the morning being deposed for a case she’d investigated and the afternoon tracking down the meager leads she had. Nobody had heard from Melanie—at least nobody would admit it. She had fallen off the grid, which wasn’t easy to do as long as you were breathing.
A black BMW pulled up behind her, and Milloy got out.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he said as they walked up the path to Rand’s enormous colonial Tudor.
“You can see why I called you,” Fina said. She knocked and opened the front door simultaneously. “I can’t search this place on my own.”
Milloy shook his head.
“I just want to take a look around, and I trust you. You’re discreet and can be devious; my favorite combination.”
Scotty greeted them. His tie was off, and he had a tumbler of scotch in one hand. The foyer was the size of a small apartment, with marble floors and a sweeping staircase.
“Dad said the cops were here yesterday,” Fina said.
“And today,” her brother commented.
