It really was all over. I almost couldn’t believe it. I’d made it through, I was still breathing and we had won. I pictured Nana and my mom smiling down on me and smiled myself. All over. I thought of LaVey and Erika Baton, Misericordiae and Ileana, poor old Poison Rose and Bethany Gilbert, Merrylegs, Officer Kildare, Anneka Klosterman and the other four songbirds, Camilla and Queneau, That Island, Mother Torres, Cella and Tussing, Mulqueen and Browne and Chief Etienne, Young Ma saving my life, Chrissy and Tilda, the docks, the Institute, the Zig-Zag and Golden Park, Erika’s basement, Caritas Heights, my old place on Datlow Street. I didn’t think of Odette; I couldn’t quite do it yet. It hurt my heart too much.
I stood up and started walking around the room, very slowly, shuffling really. Images of lurid newspaper headlines and cheap pulp novels came into my head, unbidden, drifting there as if they were radio-waves crossing the cosmic ether: Murder and Madness. Their Goddess was Death!! Justice for Madeleine. Killers Burn for Their Sins. The Astounding Case of the Polka Dot Girl.
Madeleine and her polka dot dress. Madeleine going to her doom. Madeleine the unsung hero who courageously tried to protect her mother ’s reputation. Madeleine who brought disgrace on her family and redeemed herself in death…
Then I bumped against a piece of furniture, the arm of the couch; it jolted me out of my strolling reverie, my mental trance. And it seemed to knock something into place: the final jigsaw piece inside my mind.
I held my breath. I whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
LaVey was guilty, for sure—but she wasn’t the only one.
Still dark by the time I pulled up in front of Caritas, though dawn was beginning to peek over the horizon. The old place looked lovely and gloomy and exuberant and terrifying all at once: the fabulous confusion of a unique building. The electric gates out front had been open; I sort of knew they would be. It seemed right. No lights on inside the house, but the tall outside lamp illuminated the gravel drive, the surrounding plants—and the dark-green Jaguar parked to the side of the house. I walked to the front door and knocked hard, three or four times, with my full fist. Instinctively reached back to check my gun, and of course…I didn’t have it. Stupid, Genie, stupid. Too tired, getting sloppy. But too late to turn back now.
I heard her footsteps approaching the door and tensed reflex- ively. It opened, a dim light streaming out. She gave a tiny bow and said, “I’m sorry, Detective, Madam Greenhill is sleeping. Could you call back later this morning?”
“Actually, Ileana, it’s you I want to talk to.”
She nodded and stepped aside to allow me in, her face like stone, impossible to read. We were in the gigantic entrance hallway—every bit as opulent and ridiculous and beautiful as I remembered. The butler pointed towards the sitting-room I’d visited the last time I was here.
“Please,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just be a moment. All the other staff are off so we’ll be able to talk in private.”
Oh, I’m sure we will, Ileana. Private as the grave. I walked in and stood about five feet inside the room. Gazed around at the rare artwork, the Kahlo and Anguissola, the luxurious furniture, the fireplace where I had sat with Misery and told her that her little girl was dead. The sound of the gun being cocked was louder than a click.
Ileana held it in one hand, a beam to my heart; with the other she gently closed the door behind her. She didn’t speak, so I got right to it: “Don’t be stupid, Ileana. It’s over. I know it was you.” No reply. I laughed and lit a cigarette. “‘The butler did it.’
Jesus Christ. What a godawful cliché.”
Still no answer, no reaction. I continued, “You were protecting your mistress; her family name. Right? You’ve served her all your life. Now you saw that Madeleine had gotten out of control and you couldn’t bear it. You couldn’t bear seeing Misericordiae in such pain. Being embarrassed like that, by this brat, this reckless girl. Bringing scandal on the Greenhill name. You couldn’t stand it. I get that, Ileana. Really. I can see why you did it. Now give me the gun.”
And still no reaction. I was running out of things to say here. Finally, finally: she dropped the weapon a fraction and spoke. “We argued that night. Miss Greenhill, when she came home that—the last night. We argued. I’m not proud of it. I have never raised my voice to the girl before. I loved her. But I couldn’t watch her destroy herself and my mistress. I couldn’t allow that to continue, Detective. She would have ruined everything.”
A long, eerie pause, weighted, pregnant with dread possi- bility. She sighed and said, “I…I wanted it to be painless. I felt bad about the suffering that woman caused Madeleine; that Baton woman. I even tried to kill her—later, when it didn’t matter anyway. I tried to kill the woman, for hurting her. It was meant to be quick and painless, not…not like that.”
Erika’s “crazy bitch” with the tire-iron. I said, “You always knew the girl was adopted?”
“Of course. But I loved her all the same. That didn’t matter. My mistress chose Madeleine as her daughter so she was her daughter.”
“And it was you who paid off the prostitutes that night? To vacate Whinlatter Docks so there’d be no witnesses?” Ileana hesitated, then nodded.
“Come on, Ileana,” I said, reaching out my hand. “Hand it over. Don’t be foolish. It’s over. You did what you did, now give it up and face the consequences.”
She didn’t hand it over—she raised it again. Way to play someone, Genie. She said, “I…won’t allow more shame to be brought on the Greenhill family.”
“And what? By killing a cop, you think killing a member of the HCPD will avert that? It’ll make things worse. For everyone.” She frowned, a look of confusion on her thin face; I could almost see her mind working it through, thinking ahead, trying to solve the puzzle. She said, “I… Nobody will know. I will…I’ll hide your body somewhere, or… I’m sorry, Detective, I don’t want to kill you. You seem like a good woman. But I have to. I won’t make the situation any worse for my mistress.”
“You’re too late. I’ve already told others. Colleagues, other people.”
“You’re lying. You haven’t told anyone.”
How did she know that? As if reading my thoughts, the woman said, “Because I don’t believe that you want to hurt or shame her anymore either.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe I actually gave a shit about the reputation and feelings of Misericordiae goddamn Greenhill. Maybe none of it mattered anyway because Ileana seemed dead set on ending my life in two seconds flat.
None of it did matter: at that moment Misery strode into the room and declared, “Ileana, lower that gun and hand it to me.”
The butler did as she was ordered, unquestioningly. Then she stood with her hands by her side and her head hanging low like a chastened dog. Misery came towards me, her dressing-gown scraping the floor, a pair of incongruously cutesy slippers on her feet.
“Detective Auf der Maur,” she said. “I must apologize for my servant’s behavior. She… A part of me understands why she acted as she did. I even—appreciate it on some level. But she must be punished for it. She will atone for her sins.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. I definitely didn’t like the fact that Misery now had a loaded gun in her hand. I opened my mouth to ask for it; before I could speak she said, “That woman is dead. The teacher, LaVey. She died last night, isn’t that right?”
Surprise knocked on my mental door for just an instant. Then realization slammed it shut. “You have someone. Inside the HCPD, or the medical team. You have inside knowledge.”
“I do.”
“Alright. Well, your information is good: Azura LaVey was killed last night. This morning, to be more precise.”
“Did you kill her? You don’t have to answer that if you feel it compromises your professional integrity.”
“I’ll answer. No, I didn’t kill her. Least, not directly. I was there but I didn’t do it. She burned to death inside Hecate Point lighthouse. Along with her co-co
nspirators Orianna Queneau, Alejandra Villegas and Odette Crawford.”
“I am…happy. Can one use that word in such awful circum- stances?”
“I think you’re allowed, considering everything. Madam Greenhill, pass me the gun.”
She seemed to ignore my request, or else she hadn’t heard it. “I would have killed her. With my own hands, for what she did.” “Azura LaVey did not murder Madeleine. You just heard this woman confess to it.”
A bitter smile crossed Misery’s lips. “She was just as guilty, and I am glad she’s dead. She used my daughter up and threw her out like a piece of trash. I would have killed her, do not doubt it: both for Madeleine’s sake and that other girl who died, and her poor mother too…”
She must have been referring to Bethany Gilbert. Misery continued, “You’ll know this soon enough: a woman will be pulled from the lake in Golden Park sometime today. Shot three times in the head. With this gun.”
“Who is she?”
“A drug dealer. I won’t moralize or pontificate about her character or her misdeeds. All I know is her name, and the fact that she sold heroin to Madeleine. For that, she forfeits her own life.”
Holy shit. It gets worse and worse. Now I was really starting to get nervous. I edged closer to Misericordiae and held out my hand.
She turned to Ileana and said, “Bring Detective Auf der Maur an ashtray for her cigarette.”
The servant scurried over to the side of the room, returning to me with the turtle-shaped ashtray I remembered, then scurrying back to her penitential corner. I stubbed out the Dark Nine and waited, just standing there, holding that piece of metal, dull and heavy in my hand, the weight of it pressing down, recognized by my flesh. Heavy, for such a small thing.
Misery began speaking quietly, little more than a whisper: “I have…regrets now. I should have taken charge of her life, I think. I should have imprisoned her, more-or-less, until she was older. Until she got sense. Perhaps I was…too soft. Because my child came to me late in life. I was too soft on Madeleine. But that’s forgivable, I think, in a woman of more mature years. This blessing, late in one’s life… I petted her. Allowed her too much freedom… Yes, I regret a lot of things, Detective. I don’t blame myself for what happened—that would be irrational. And yet: I regret what I did. Or rather, what I didn’t do.”
I said, “Madeleine loved you. She may not have always shown it but she did. She loved you and tried to protect you.”
She looked at me, a gleam in her eye. “Oh, yes: I knew that. I never doubted it. Never. She told me—you know this already— she told me she loved me that last day. Perhaps… I wonder did she know? That she was going to her death?”
“I think she did. I think she went there for you. Madeleine died to save both of you. That’s why she wore the polka dot dress that night: it was a symbol for her, a symbol of something good and positive and hopeful…like she was wearing it as a talisman, even though she knew it wouldn’t do any good.”
“Yes. She was a good girl.”
Misery had a faraway expression, a sort of melancholy rapture; for a moment I debated jumping forward and trying to wrestle the gun from her but she had it fixed in her hand, those strong, bony fingers curled around it like steel grips. Too risky. Instead I mustered as much calmness into my voice as I could and said, “Madam Greenhill. Give me the gun.”
Finally she heard my words; she smiled at me, genuine warmth in it, and said, “No. I will do what I must do. Nobody is going to stop me—not even a courageous, determined young woman like you. Understand, Detective: a mother doesn’t have a choice. To stand idly by and allow something so dreadful to happen to your child… You may as well not exist. Madeleine was not my biological child but she became like flesh and blood to me. Perhaps I… I think sometimes I saw that girl as being my redemption, in some way; redemption for my amoral life. Motherhood, caring for another person, and love, such simple, profound, ineffable love… I will never change my behavior—it is hardwired into me, to use that modern phraseology. I have a fatalistic view of life, as I’m sure you know by now. I accept the way things fundamentally are; the way I am. But Madeleine… Through her, I felt I achieved some kind of redemption, a state of grace…”
I needed something drastic now, needed to appeal to her better side. I said, “Right. You’re a religious woman, aren’t you?” “I am. My Catholic faith has always been of paramount importance to me.”
“So how would your faith square with shooting Ileana? ‘Thou shalt not kill’, remember?”
Misery nodded. “I remember. The simple answer is, it doesn’t. I can’t reconcile them, and yet I will shoot her anyway. Judgment will be reserved for the afterlife. And it will be severe, I have no doubt.” She paused. “I have always had difficulty reconciling my faith and my actions. The moral tenets at the core of my belief. I truly feel them, in my heart. And yet I have behaved abominably at times. I have plundered and exploited and dominated, misused my power, condemned others… Well. Now I am condemned. Never a moment’s pause; no regrets or hesitation. I did not lose one moment’s sleep in my long life over hurting another. Not one lost night. But for all that I do believe; I am faithful. And this woman, this LaVey, attempting to create her own religion, to be her own god… The arrogance of it disgusts me. I belong to a more traditional faith. More humble. I strode through life blind and arrogant, yes, but my faith… There were moments when even I was humble. When I was good.”
The end came quickly: Ileana took three steps forward and kneeled at Misery’s feet, faithful servant to the last. She lowered her head and raised her hands and implored, “Let me kill myself, mistress. Don’t stain your hands with my blood.”
Misery smiled wryly. “My hands are already soaked in blood.”
I said desperately, “Please. Don’t. Don’t make it all worse. You can still have your redemption.”
She smiled again, broader this time, happier. “She was redemption enough.”
I threw the ashtray aside and leaped forward, nothing to do now but anything at all. I was too late. Misery fired once, a ferocious bang, straight through the top of Ileana’s head, bullet and brain matter exiting at the back of her neck, a thin, weirdly neat squirt of dark blood along the floor. The dead woman flopped down beside it. I gasped in shock and stopped, my heart pounding. Smoke rising from the barrel, the smell of cordite bitter and lucid, a look of stoical acceptance on Misery’s face. No fear in me: I knew I was safe. And I knew there was no point arresting her for murder. It was all over for Misericordiae and the Family Greenhill. Death would have its dominion.
She turned to me and said, “Thank you for all your efforts, Detective Auf der Maur. I appreciated everything you did for us, and wish you a happy life. Goodbye.”
I walked away. As I closed the sitting-room door behind me I heard her declaring, in a voice that rang out with song, “I am coming to you now, Madeleine.” I stepped through those massive doors into the outside world, the normal world, where people lived their regular humdrum lives and were all the happier for it. As I opened the car-door a single shot rang out from within Caritas Heights. I gunned the engine and started for home. The dawn had arrived and I was going to sleep for a long time.
Chapter 29
Genie
I TOOK several days off work after that. Etienne insisted. She said I looked “like shit”—the second time I’d ever heard her swear. Must be my bad influence. Before the leave of absence I filled in the blanks for the Chief, told her how it had all panned out to the best of my knowledge. I chose to bury a lot of Madeleine’s past—let it lie with her in the dreaming forever— because she deserved that much charity, and besides, what good would it do now? But Etienne got the gist of it alright. I also considered dissembling about the events at Caritas Heights; maybe say Ileana killed Misery and then herself. In the end I decided against it: forensics would expose the lie. The sharp spike of fact tends to unravel our fictions.
Then Etienne filled me in some. A few of LaVey’s disc
iples had taken their own lives in grief, including Nora Hofton: hanged herself in her own kitchen. Her kids had found the body in the morning. More had been arrested and were about to be charged with conspiracy to a whole shit-storm of crimes. Some, of course, would get away with it—with LaVey and Queneau both dead, we had no way of knowing for sure who was who or who did what. Besides, the brass and city authorities were keen—though this was never stated out loud—to just sort of forget about the whole thing, as much as was possible. Too many of the city’s shining lights involved; too much potential for embarrassment to the wrong women. That’s how it is here. Justice and truth are fine so long as they don’t cost too much.
But at least Aaliyah Addison was under investigation by the HCPD Internal Affairs division, while Klosterman, Tussing and Spaulding were in lock-up; they were all fucked, looking at life. Assistant City Prosecutor Walkup was at that moment clearing her desk and vacating the premises. Other star performers in this little drama—Councilors Gurney and Hulman, Nicola Goldstone—they’d probably do some jail-time. Colette Unser was too well-connected to go down, Dee-Ann Lehrman was too famous. Liz Arendt was still on the lam, out there somewhere, presumed alive, though nobody seemed to care much one way or the other. There were others; Etienne didn’t give me names. We shook hands and I left the Dicks building with a light heart.
Two days of chilling out, slow and steady drinking, long baths, bad TV. Two days of recuperation and realignment. Two days at the end of which a letter arrived: notification from my bank that the sum of 200 grand had been deposited to my account by an unknown person four days previously, with instructions not to transfer the money until today. It had to have been Misericordiae. I left my home for the first time in 48 hours to present myself in person at the bank, and arrange for the purchase of my apartment. That left half the money, which I divvied up between a few different charities: ones helping homeless women, prostitutes and substance abusers, mostly, with a few bucks left over to go towards the steeple renovation fund at the Church of the Redemption.
The Polka Dot Girl Page 33
