“I’ll go to a meeting with him today. Then you can go to work. Although I really appreciate your offering to take the day off,” he added quickly.
“I didn’t offer.” She handed him the phone and folded her arms across her chest.
“I’ll do it.”
“Now.”
He knew she had him, so he dialed Bill’s number. After a few moments, Bill’s voice mail picked up. James cleared his throat and spoke over Bill’s outgoing message.
“Bill? It’s James. I, uh, kind of lost it last night… Is there a meeting we could go to together? I’ll come to you…Thanks. I’m sorry.”
When the voice mail prompted him to please leave a message, he hung up. He looked at Jayla and lied with the easy skill of a practiced alcoholic.
“There’s a meeting near his office at noon. I’m meeting him there. So you can go.”
“It’s only ten thirty.”
“I’ll just shower and leave. You don’t have to stay.”
“We can walk out together.”
James sat up on the bed and, with considerable effort, got to his feet. He pressed a hand onto the nightstand to steady himself.
“Look. I’m glad you found me last night, and I appreciate your staying over. But I can get to Bill’s office by myself. I don’t need you babysitting me.”
“Are you really going?”
“Call Bill and ask him.” James held out his cell phone, betting that she wouldn’t take it. But he was wrong. She grabbed it and glanced down at the call log. Then she handed the phone back.
“I’m coming back later to make sure you went. And I’m spending the night.”
James held his tongue, with difficulty. He needed to sort himself out. He wanted another plan in place to deal with Jayla by the next time he saw her. Maybe he really would call Bill. But if he did, it would be because he wanted to, not because she made him.
Jayla threw on her coat and grabbed her bag. “I’ll cook something nice for us tonight. Full of protein.” She trailed her fingers across his cheek, but while her touch was tender, her voice was not.
“I’m going to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
She was gone before James could ask her how exactly she planned to do that. Which was fine, because he didn’t really want to hear the answer.
Isobel almost didn’t make it to the audition in time. First, she had to wait for Detective Kozinski to show up and collect Doreen’s blackmail log, which, to Isobel’s annoyance, she did without so much as a thank you. Then she had to wait for Frank to get off the phone so she could ask permission to leave, and then she missed a train and had to wait ten minutes for the next one. She was completely out of breath when she arrived at the studio. The hallway was clogged with the usual crush of optimistic actors, but Delphi was standing just outside the audition room, her ear to the door.
“I was starting to think you weren’t going to show,” she whispered. “There are only two people ahead of me and then we’re on.”
“What’s the drill?” Isobel hurriedly threw off her flats and slipped on a pair of spiky heels.
“They said they would type us when we came in, and they might ask us to sing, but they might not. If we do sing, they might cut us off after a few bars, and no matter what, the most they want is sixteen.”
“That’s even more ridiculous than the last one!”
Delphi indicated a mousy young woman with a clipboard perched on the end of a bench. “You’d better check in.”
“Isobel Spice,” she said, pointing to her name. The monitor dutifully put a check next to it.
“They’re typing when you go in, so you may or may not get to sing,” the woman droned.
“So I’ve heard,” Isobel said.
A man came out of the audition room, grumbling, and an older woman in front of Delphi went in.
“Typing—what exactly does that mean, anyway?” Isobel asked.
“They give you a quick once-over to see if you look right for any of the parts, and I guess they run down your résumé—Oh, this is me!”
The older woman was in and out, without singing a note. Delphi went in, leaving the door slightly ajar, and Isobel strained to listen. This time they had compared audition material beforehand, and she knew Delphi was planning to sing “Good-bye, Little Dream” from Anything Goes, transposed to a more suitable key. Isobel was armed with “De-Lovely” from the same show. She smiled to herself when she heard the piano intro begin. It seemed Delphi had made it past the typing test.
“Good-by-y-y-y-y-e-e-e-e-e—” Delphi began.
“Thank you!”
A moment later, a stunned Delphi appeared in the doorway.
“Son of a bitch,” she gasped.
Isobel gave her arm a sympathetic squeeze, took a deep breath and walked past her into the room.
“Hi! I’m Isobel Spice and I would like to sing “De-Lovely.” She bit her lip to keep from adding anything else that could be used against her.
She knew her singing was tentative, because she expected to be cut off at any moment. When neither of the men behind the table stopped her, she relaxed and began to enjoy herself, only to find herself suddenly singing without accompaniment.
“That was sixteen,” the pianist called out.
“Thank you,” said one of the men behind the table. “Please send in the next person.”
Isobel joined Delphi in the hall. Before she could say anything, Delphi held up her hand. “Don’t say a word. At least you got to sing more than one bar.”
Isobel shook her head in silent commiseration.
“Did I really sound so awful?” Delphi asked.
“It was fine,” said Isobel. “Honestly.” It was true. The two notes Delphi had sung hadn’t been enough to offend. “Maybe they were still deciding about your type.”
“That’s it. I’m going Shakespearean,” Delphi grumbled.
“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t get much more from Detective Kozinski when I gave her Doreen’s paper.”
They walked to the subway in silence.
“I was thinking,” Isobel said, pausing at the entrance. “It might be worth tracking down the names on Doreen’s list that I didn’t recognize.”
“I’m sure the police will do that.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t also.”
“Don’t get involved,” Delphi warned.
“I’m already involved,” Isobel said. “And I want to find out whether that paper is a blackmail log or not. It’s a good guess, but it might not be. It might be something else.”
“Why don’t you just ask Nikki?”
Isobel shook her head firmly. “If Nikki and Annika Franklin really are the same person, then she’s a thief. What if Nikki killed Doreen because she found out? If she knows I know, then I could be next. I’m better off getting the information from somebody who doesn’t know who I am or where to find me.”
“You’re better off not getting the information at all,” Delphi said.
“I’ll be careful, I promise. But I have to figure out what is really going on in that office. That’s the only way I’ll know who might be dangerous.”
Delphi threw up her arms. “That’s easy—all of them!”
“I have to sit there all day with them. I’m not in a vacuum.”
“Isobel, I know you’re a…how can I put this nicely…a naturally curious person, but let’s not forget what happened to that curious cat.”
“Yes, but cats have nine lives.”
Isobel gave Delphi a quick peck on the cheek and trotted down the subway steps.
“You’re not a cat!” Delphi called after her.
Isobel waved over her shoulder and continued on her way back to InterBank Switzerland. And she knew exactly what she was going to do once she got there.
TWENTY-SIX
It turned out that there was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at noon near Bill’s office, and James found himself there—not because he eventually brought himself around
to calling Bill, but because Bill showed up at James’s apartment only moments after Jayla had gone.
“She called me last night,” Bill reminded James.
James had a vague recollection of Jayla talking to Bill the night before, but it was so fuzzy, he thought he’d dreamed it.
“You didn’t have to drag yourself all the way up here,” James said.
“Were you going to call me?” Bill asked.
“I did.”
“But you didn’t leave a message…”
“Okay, maybe. I don’t know, I feel so, so…” James struggled to find the right word, but Bill was ready with it.
“Ashamed. We’ve all been there. Falling off the first time is, in some ways, the worst. But now you know better what you’re in for.”
Yeah, a lifetime of folding chairs, James thought, taking a seat in the meeting room of Park Avenue Presbyterian Church on Twenty-second and Park Avenue South.
“Are you going to speak?” Bill whispered to James, while a young NYU student with curly black hair and glasses shared her struggle to stay sober in the face of campus temptation.
James shook his head.
“You might find it helpful. This group always leaves time for additional speakers.”
James stole a glance at Bill. He was in his mid-thirties, a divorced insurance broker with two small children he rarely saw. His sandy blond hair was thinning, and there was a permanent sadness in his eyes, which morphed into pain when he talked about his kids. He was a good sponsor for James. Steady, but careful not to push too hard. He had been sober himself for three years. Obviously, he’d had a good role model.
“Do you still have a sponsor?” James whispered back.
“Of course. She’s great. Sweet, but tough.” Bill scanned the small gathering. “I don’t see her here today, or I’d introduce you. She hasn’t been to our home group for a while, but she works nearby and comes to these lunchtime meetings when she can get away.”
James turned his attention back to the black-haired girl. James wondered if he should talk to her after the meeting. Although he’d started drinking in high school, the real problems had kicked in at Columbia. He probably knew better than anyone else there what she was going through.
She finished speaking and returned to her seat, wiping her eyes.
“Thank you, Jill.” The leader smiled warmly.
“Thank you, Jill,” the room repeated.
Jill nodded and continued to cry quietly in her chair.
“Does anyone else want to speak? We have a few extra minutes,” the leader said.
The room fell silent, and although nobody was looking at him, James felt an acute desire to confess. But he didn’t want to do it here. He wanted to save it for his home group, which met at a community center near the Columbia campus.
“Then let’s recite The Serenity Prayer,” said the leader.
James closed his eyes and mouthed along. He kept them closed a few moments longer, adding his own private prayer. “Lord, help me lick this thing. And help me do what’s right.”
By the time he opened his eyes, the group had begun to disperse. He caught sight of Jill, the NYU student, standing alone by a rack of folding chairs. He hesitated, unsure whether or not she would appreciate his empathy. Then, remembering how much kind gestures always meant to him, he took a step toward her.
“Hang on.” Bill stopped him and waved to a woman who had just come in.
She walked toward them, shaking her head in frustration. “Is it over already? The temp took lunch early, and I couldn’t get away.”
“I’m glad you came. There’s someone I want you to meet,” said Bill. “Hey, James!”
James pulled his eyes away from Jill and met those of the short, round woman standing next to Bill.
“This is James,” Bill said. “I’m teaching him everything you taught me.”
She waved off Bill’s compliment with a shy laugh, but nodded her head just the same.
“James, this is Conchita, my sponsor.”
As she held out her hand, James’s eyes lit on the silver and emerald cross around her neck.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said with a smile.
Even though Isobel had made a photocopy of Doreen’s personal invoice before turning it over to Detective Kozinski, she had committed the unfamiliar names and amounts to memory. Kim Wong, Susan Hart and Lenny DeCarlo, whoever they were, were linked to the $200, $750 and $1275 sums respectively. If Doreen was blackmailing them, she must have stored their contact information somewhere. Friday afternoon was relatively quiet, so Isobel set about searching her copies of Doreen’s computer files for an address book or contact list.
After a fruitless hour, she sat back in her chair, massaging her temples.
“What are you working so hard on, anyway?” Nikki asked, glancing over at her.
“Oh, just organizing information so I know where everything is. What about you?”
“Billing. That’s all I ever do.”
Nikki was wearing her yellow leather pants again, and Isobel tried to decide whether she would ever describe them as buttercup. She tried to envision the sixty-four-count box of Crayolas. Lemon she remembered, but not buttercup.
“I love those pants,” she said. “They’re really great on you. In my next life, I want long legs.”
“Thanks,” said Nikki. “I want big boobs.”
“What color would you say those are exactly? Lemon? Buttercup?”
Nikki rubbed her hands thoughtfully over her leather-clad thighs. “Dunno.” Nikki looked up, and her face brightened. “Tom! What color would you say these pants are?”
“Yellow,” intoned a deep, throaty voice that Isobel recognized instantly. But when she saw where it was coming from, it was all she could do to keep from laughing.
Tom Scaletta, Nikki’s boyfriend, may have had the best bedroom voice around, but he was short and squat, with graying hair that stuck up in tufts around a balding pate. His voice was so at odds with his appearance that Isobel had to assume his prowess in the sack was more in line with the former than the latter.
Nikki gave a flirty laugh. “We know they’re yellow, but what kind? Buttercup? Lemon? Sunshine?”
“Sexy,” said Tom.
Nikki turned to Isobel. “There you have it. Isobel, this is Tom. Tom, Isobel.”
Tom took Isobel’s hand and shook it heartily. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Isobel hesitated, unsure how to respond. The usual answer to such a statement was “And I’ve heard a lot about you.” Except that she hadn’t.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said. She was tempted to add “and put a face to the voice,” but she didn’t trust herself not to crack up.
Tom turned back to Nikki. “I made a reservation for bottle service at Xavier’s. Are we still on for tonight?”
“You bet!”
“Excellent,” said Tom. The way he taffy-pulled the word out of his mouth, it sounded to Isobel more like ‘eggggggg-salad.’
“I’ll meet you downstairs in ten, okay?”
“Sure.” Tom gave Nikki a peck on the cheek. “Nice to meet you, Izzy.”
She instinctively recoiled from the nickname she loathed, although she had to admit that, generated by those vocal cords, it sounded rather appealing.
“What’s bottle service?” she asked Nikki when Tom was gone.
“It’s the only way to get a table somewhere like Xavier’s. You know about Xavier’s, right?” Isobel shook her head, and Nikki continued as she gathered her things. “Xavier Barques, the movie director, owns it. It’s the nightclub right now. Although in a few months it’ll probably fade. They do. Anyway, with bottle service, you order a bottle of whatever you want to drink, and you pay anywhere from $500 up.”
“Five hundred dollars—are you kidding? Is it a special bottle?”
“No. But it buys you a table and you can sit there all night and host your friends. It’s fabulous.”
It didn’t sound
so fabulous to Isobel, but maybe there was more to it. “Do you get food, too?”
“That’s extra,” Nikki said, pulling on her jacket.
“Couldn’t you get the same bottle at the bar for a lot less?”
“Sure, but that’s not the point.”
“It sounds pretty extravagant,” Isobel said.
“Tom does very well.” Nikki gave Isobel a significant wink.
In more ways than one, thought Isobel. “Do lots of places do this?” she asked.
“Oh, sure. But Xavier’s is hot. It draws a completely wild and diverse clientele. Hipsters, money, celebrities. Big gay and transgender crowd too.”
“Sounds neat,” said Isobel, unconvinced.
“You should try it sometime.”
Isobel laughed. “I’ll have to get myself a boyfriend in Equities first.”
“Better than a boyfriend in Equity. That’ll get you nowhere.” Nikki laughed at her own joke and threw her bag over her shoulder. “See you Monday!”
“Wait! I almost forgot. Should we just meet you at Terence Hoff’s studio?”
“Yes. Ten o’clock. What’s your friend’s name?”
“Delphi.”
“That’s cool. Is it short for something?” Nikki asked.
“Delphinium. But she hates it.”
“Yeah, I hate my full name too.”
Isobel’s heart began to beat the tiniest bit faster.
“What’s your full name?” she asked.
“Annika,” said Nikki. “But only my mother calls me that. Have a good weekend!”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Your image isn’t strong enough! I want to see joy! JOY!”
Isobel and Delphi exchanged dubious glances as Terence Hoff, a slim, effeminate, beaky man, shouted at the quivering young woman at the front of the small, dark room.
“I—I’m trying,” she stammered. “It’s just that I’m not…well…I’m not by nature a very happy person.”
“That’s why it’s called ACTING!” screamed Terence.
“If it’s acting, then why is she working so hard to remember something that actually happened to her?” Isobel whispered to Delphi. Nikki, seated next to them, shushed her. Isobel sat back and watched the young woman repeat the exercise.
The Temporary Detective Page 14
