by Kyra Davis
“Oh.” I leaned back in my seat. “So I got more information out of her than you.”
“You could say that, yes.”
“In fact, of the two of us I’m the only one who got any information at all.”
Anatoly scowled into his coffee.
“One might say this proves I’m a better investigator than you.”
“One might say that,” Anatoly snapped. “But then that ‘one’ would be wrong. You undermined my interview by showing up two hours before me.”
“Excuse me, but you held out on me first.”
Anatoly looked liked he was about to argue, but then stopped himself. His expression softened considerably. “Sophie, I never said you were bad at getting information out of people, but you’re not careful. You have a habit of making everything worse right before you make it better. That may work in your day-to-day life, but not when you’re dealing with murderers. I have no idea why I care about you, but I do.”
“Seriously?” I felt a rush of warmth that filled up every inch of my body. “You care about me?”
“I never said I didn’t.”
“You said you didn’t want to be my boyfriend.”
“I’m not comfortable with that title.”
So much for the warmth. “How about commitment-phobic rat bastard?” I asked. “Are you comfortable with that title?”
The spark of amusement lit up Anatoly’s eyes. “I also worry about your temper.”
“Humph.”
“Let me at least go with you to this party,” Anatoly said. “Together we’ll be able to get more information out of more of the guests.”
“You can’t come to the party.”
“Sophie, I’ve agreed to work with you, but you can’t keep me out of the loop.”
“I’m not trying to.”
Anatoly gave me a withering stare.
“Okay, I was trying to, but not anymore. You’re looking at the new and improved Sophie Katz. This model is more cooperative and has better skin. But as I said before, Johnny has a crush on me and so far that’s worked in my favor. If I show up with a guy on my arm he might stop being so helpful.”
Anatoly’s jaw stiffened at the mention of Johnny’s infatuation, so I laid a reassuring hand over his. “You’re being silly, Anatoly. It’s a party, not an intimate night alone. I’m not going to agree to one of those until I’ve gotten to know him a lot better.”
Anatoly muttered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like a curse.
“Was that a curse?” I asked.
He just glared at me.
“Tell you what, why don’t you come to lunch at Neiman’s?”
“I can’t. I’ve been looking into Eugene’s FBI days. David Espinoza was one of the men he put away. Thanks to Eugene the guy did ten years. He has a history of violence and he’s been working for his brother’s construction company in South San Francisco for the past six months. He’s agreed to meet me in an hour.”
Now it was my turn to glare. “You weren’t going to tell me about this, were you.”
“If I wasn’t going to tell you, I wouldn’t have told you. I’d even invite you to come with me, but you have another appointment.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll give you that. But I want to know what you find out from this guy.”
“What time is your lunch at the Rotunda?”
“One o’clock. It won’t be more than an hour because it’s during Mary Ann’s lunch break.”
“I should be able to get back to San Francisco by two. Why don’t I meet you at Neiman’s and we’ll compare notes.”
“Yeah, okay. Meet me at the Lancôme counter. Maybe we could find you an eyebrow pencil to help emphasize your new look.”
“Let’s talk about Tiff,” Anatoly said, ignoring my last comment. “Do you think you established enough of a bond to arrange to meet her socially, or do you need to make another appointment?”
My playful mood flew out the picture-glass window. “I could probably get her to have lunch with me, but I’d rather not.”
“Why’s that?”
“I feel bad about lying to her during my appointment, but at least in that context I was just a client. You’re asking me to pretend to be a friend.”
“You don’t have to pretend,” Anatoly suggested. “You could actually be her friend if that would make it easier on you.”
“I don’t lie to my friends.”
“You lie to me all the time.”
“Again, I don’t lie to my friends. That would be morally wrong. Lying to an ex-boyfriend is totally within the confines of acceptable behavior.”
“I was never really your boyfriend.”
“Like hell.”
Anatoly chuckled and shook his head. “I would like to know if Tiff’s brother left her anything or if she had a chance to go through his apartment. I would also like to know a little more about these trips of his. Did he say anything about these animal-lover conventions? Was there a political tie to either Brooke or Fitzgerald? You’ve obviously established a rapport with her, but if you don’t want to meet her outside of Mojo, then make another appointment with her. Surely you can think of something else she could wax.” His eyes fell to my lap, and I smacked him on the arm.
“Get your mind out of my pants. I’ll find a way to talk to Tiff, but in the meantime you need to explain to me what this letter Melanie found is all about.”
Anatoly’s expression became more serious and he rested his forearms on the table. “I haven’t seen the original, but Melanie scanned it and e-mailed it to me. It’s a little cryptic. Peter simply wrote that people had a right to privacy, even public figures. He implored Eugene not to expose his secret, claiming that doing so would not only ruin political careers but families as well.”
“You think he was having an affair with Anne Brooke?”
“It’s possible.”
I clucked my tongue. “Voters never like it when their elected officials commit adultery, but if an affair led to the death of the person they were sleeping with…well, that would be a tough one to recover from.”
Anatoly shrugged. “It hasn’t been a problem for the Kennedys.”
“Touché. Still, if I were Anne I’d be worried.”
“You might be right, but it’s still too early in the game to limit ourselves to one theory.” Anatoly glanced at his watch. “I should get going.” He finished up his drink and started to leave, but hesitated. “You’ve done a good job.”
“Excuse me?”
“The connection you made with Tiff and the information you’ve gathered so far. I’m impressed.”
I couldn’t have been more floored if he had dropped to his knees and proposed marriage.
Anatoly smiled when I didn’t immediately respond. “Don’t tell me that my compliment left you speechless? That is a first. Would I be overdoing it if I added that you looked incredibly beautiful today?”
“I like it when people overdo things,” I said, once I managed to find my voice. “Moderation is for wimps.”
Anatoly laughed gently and leaned over so close that I could smell the faint fragrance of the soap he must have showered with that morning. “Do you think we might prove the old adage to be true?”
“What old adage would that be?” I asked in a whisper.
“Will politics turn us into strange bedfellows?”
“Not a chance.”
Anatoly’s lips curled into his little half smile. “We shall see.”
I watched him as he walked out the door. I wanted him. He was like a shot of espresso: strong, dark and addictive, with the ability to keep you up all night long.
I was in major trouble.
11
My yoga instructor says that when I’m feeling stressed I should close my eyes and go to my happy place. But how am I supposed to drive to Neiman Marcus with my eyes closed?
—C’est La Mort
After getting my caffeine fix I headed to Union Square with the intention of stopping at Cody’s Bo
oks before meeting everyone at Neiman’s. I needed to pick up a new copy of the book I borrowed from Marcus. I hadn’t told Marcus this, but there was a passage in that book involving a lusty rabbi that had me laughing so hard that I had inadvertently spit coffee all over his copy.
As I wound my way up multiple stories of the Ellis O’Farrell Garage I mulled over Anatoly’s request that I speak to Tiff again in the near future. What service could I hire her for this time? It would be a month before I had enough regrowth on my legs or brows to wax them again, I was blessed with a relatively hairless upper lip, and there was no way she was getting near my bikini area. That only left underarms. Underarms—my God, that sounded painful. I squeezed my Audi into a spot between a Lexus SUV and a Hummer and then admired my brows in the rearview mirror. Tiff certainly knew what she was doing, and it would be great not have to shave my underarms—that would save me a good, oh I don’t know, thirty seconds every day. I took a deep breath and called Mojo. As luck would have it, Tiff was standing right next to the receptionist when I called and usurped the phone.
“Hi there!” she said cheerfully. “I was just thinking of you. You’ll never believe this but an hour after you left I had another new client and it turns out he lost a family member to suicide, too. It was kind of disturbing, but I feel like it’s a sign. I’m just not sure of what.”
Maybe it’s a sign that you’re being manipulated. “That is weird. I was actually calling because…” Tell her you want your underarms waxed. You can do it, Sophie! “Because…because…I was wondering if you would like to get together sometime since we do have so much in common and we could obviously both use a friend to talk to.” Oh God, I was a horrible, horrible person, but at least my underarms were safe.
“I would love that. Do you want to get together Saturday? I never work past four on the weekends.”
“Yeah, Saturday would be great. Name the restaurant.”
“You know, I’ve always wanted to go to Michael Mina, although it’s seriously expensive. I should probably save my money. Or we could go to—”
“We’ll go to Michael Mina. My treat.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I was fooling myself if I thought one expensive dinner was going to make up for what I was doing, but I was very good at fooling myself.
“Hey, that is so nice of you. Okay, why don’t we meet there at six.”
“Beautiful, see you there.” I hung up and immediately dialed Melanie’s number, hoping that by providing Melanie with a sympathetic ear I’d both comfort her and convince myself that using Tiff was an act of necessity, not cruelty.
Melanie’s answering machine picked up. I hung up without leaving a message. “So she’s not answering her phone. So what?” I whispered to myself.
I got out of the car and headed to the elevator, determined not to pay attention to the knot that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach.
I love Neiman Marcus’s Union Square store. It’s just impossible not to. The actual building rivals the beauty of the impossibly fabulous items it contains. It often takes tourists a few minutes to realize this. They get caught up in their quest to find Donna Karan’s new fragrance or whatever. But eventually they look up and they are rewarded with a vision of the beautifully designed stained-glass domed ceiling that is protecting them from the cool San Francisco drizzle that they failed to pack for. Not being overly fond of tourists, I don’t get to Union Square all that often (despite its close proximity to my apartment), so I took a moment to admire my surroundings before approaching the Lancôme counter.
And there they all were. Rick was standing at Mary Ann’s side as Mary Ann carefully applied eye shadow to Maggie Gallagher.
Rick saw me first and offered a halfhearted wave. “Hello, Sophie. Mary Ann was just saying that you would be joining us. I’m so glad you could come.”
Funny, he didn’t sound glad, he sounded put out.
“Hi, Sophie,” Mary Ann said. She sounded glad to see me, although she hadn’t really seen me yet since all her focus was on applying shadow to Maggie’s naked eyelid. “Have you two met before?” she asked.
Maggie, currently unable to meet my gaze, smiled vaguely. “I saw you at Eugene’s funeral, but we’ve never been officially introduced. I’m Maggie Gallagher.”
“Sophie Katz. I’ve actually been wanting to talk to you for a while.”
Now Mary Ann pulled her brush away and Maggie opened both her eyes. Several of her red curls, which she had tried to restrain inside a bun, were rebelliously popping out in various directions. “I am sorry about not returning your calls. Fitzgerald actually asked me to make myself available to you, or rather to the National Review.”
Had that been a hint of sarcasm in her voice? Johnny had said that she didn’t like to hang out with journalists during her free time; maybe she was just irritated that I was there at all.
“I’ve just been so busy,” Maggie continued. “The election is less than two months away and my husband just had back surgery.”
“Is he all right?” I asked.
“He’s recovering nicely. He should be back on his feet in a matter of weeks.” She looked up at the ceiling to allow Mary Ann to apply some mascara.
“Our meeting with Carl Pearson wrapped up earlier than expected,” Rick explained, “and Maggie thought it might be fun to have Mary Ann give her a makeover.”
Mary Ann finished up and handed Maggie a mirror. “What do you think?”
“Oh, darling, it’s wonderful! I can see why Rick’s so smitten with you. You’re talented, sweet and absolutely adorable.” She waved her hand in front of me, showing off a particularly beautiful diamond ring. “Can you believe she actually had the people in jewelry clean this for me while she was doing my makeup? That’s what I call service.”
“Yes, Mary Ann is one of a kind,” I agreed. “She’s done my makeup before and—” Mary Ann was looking at me with her mouth wide open. “Mary Ann? Are you okay?”
“Your skin,” she gasped. “It’s perfect! It’s always good but now you have this…this…”
“Mojo glow,” I supplied. “Yeah, Tiff definitely knows her stuff. Yesterday I had my first facial,” I explained to Rick and Maggie. “I went to see this woman named Tiffany Strauss and here’s a weird bit of trivia—her brother was Peter Strauss. You know who I’m talking about, right? He was the guy who worked for Anne Brooke who committed suicide.”
Their reaction was incredibly subtle. Rick’s Adam’s apple bobbed and Maggie’s fingers, which had been relaxed in her lap before I mentioned Peter, were now curled and clutching the fabric of her A-line skirt.
“We do live in a small world, don’t we?” Maggie said in an even voice. “It must have been horrible to lose a brother like that. Did you talk to her about it?”
“I did.”
“Does she have any idea why he did it?” she pressed.
“Not a clue.”
“That’s awful,” Rick whispered. “Truly awful.”
Mary Ann was now busily cleaning her brushes. She glanced at her watch. “My lunch break is supposed to start right now. Is everyone ready to eat?”
We went upstairs and were quickly seated at one of the tables adjacent to the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Can you believe I’ve never lunched here?” Maggie asked as she admired her surroundings.
“Everything’s good.” I tapped my fingers on my leg as I watched Maggie study the culinary choices. She was an attractive woman, more so now that Mary Ann had worked her magic on her face. She was athletically built and exuded strength and self-confidence. I wouldn’t want to mess with her, but I wondered if maybe Eugene had.
“I was moved by the eulogy you delivered at Eugene’s funeral,” I said as I casually unfolded my napkin and dropped it in my lap.
“I only said what I felt.” Maggie put down the menu and looked at me. “Eugene was by far the most honest and moral man I have ever met.”
“I’ll second that,” Rick said quietly.
> Mary Ann placed her hand on Rick’s arm. “I really do wish I could have met him,” she said. “Anyone you cared about so much had to have been a really good guy.”
“He was a good guy, better than me.” His mouth turned down, making his face look longer than usual. “I know this is a cliché, but Eugene truly was too good for this world. He was what the rest of us strive to be.”
I sat back in my chair. Usually those kinds of compliments were reserved for the likes of Jesus and Bono.
Mary Ann still hadn’t let go of Rick’s arm and was now leaning into him a bit more, her perfect forehead wrinkled in concern. What exactly was I in the middle of here?
My thoughts were interrupted by the waiter. We all placed our orders, and as usual, Mary Ann, the thinnest of all of us, ordered the most caloric thing on the menu. The woman wasn’t human.
“How long did you work with Eugene?” I asked Maggie as the busboy presented each of us with our own popover with a side of strawberry butter.
“I only met him a year ago, when I came onto Fitzgerald’s team. Of course I knew him from reputation before then.” She leaned forward and added in a hushed voice, “I had heard about what happened on the Bruni campaign.”
“The Bruni campaign? Do you mean Edward Bruni? Eugene worked for him?” Bruni had run for Congress a while back. Normally I wouldn’t know the names of the losers in the congressional races that took place outside of my district, but Edward Bruni had managed to achieve national infamy. He had been in the lead, running on a platform that exalted law enforcement and programs that would encourage teenage abstinence and moral behavior. And then he was caught with his pants down, which might not have been a problem if the person he had been caught with hadn’t been a seventeen-year-old girl. She had been a freshman in college at the time, having skipped a grade at some point, but still, seventeen was seventeen.
