Beka didn’t answer. Devon knew she was busy experimenting with everything in the meat department. It sort of fit the image dancers carried around with them—loose morals and even looser limbs. Devon had seen and eavesdropped enough to know that it didn’t matter if it was true or not, most guys thought dancers were the perfect lay.
Devon’s own mother had asked Beka once, “Why is it men look at you like they want to fuck you?” Every woman Devon knew had seen the lust in strangers’ eyes, as if she was being subconsciously stripped. Beka was so sensitive, maybe she felt it more than most. Despite her attempts to appear tough, Beka wasn’t—she felt things deeply. Devon had seen her come home crying because a stupid pigeon got hit by a cab—how could anyone live in New York City and care about pigeons? Maybe that was why Devon had always felt so protective of her. It was the pigeons.
“He said he wanted to marry me!” Beka’s laughter was brittle in the cold. “My first proposal just dumped me.”
“You told him to get lost, didn’t you?” Beka’s boyfriends needed an instruction manual to figure their way through the maze of tests she made them pass—an emotional obstacle course she designed to keep love at bay. She was nicer to pigeons than she was to her love interests.
“Maybe I should be a lesbian.”
“Maybe you should!” They both giggled.
Devon finished the scenario for herself as she threw off the covers and felt the first bite of cold when her feet struck the wood floor. The plastic over the windows breathed in and out with a life of its own. Winter was in the room, and the view outside was bleak. Now that she thought about it, Todd had seemed desperate to get drunk last night. She’d seen guys lose it over Beka before—Godwyn had certainly been in that position and probably Josh as well. She had seen Beka disappear into the bathroom with one guy and go home with another. The only men she was nice to were guys she had not slept with. Look at poor Godwyn; she had slept with him twice last summer, been awful to him ever since, and now could not get rid of him. He drove her nuts.
“Todd was sweet,” Beka said, looking down from her loft bed.
Devon did not ask why she referred to him in the past tense.
“What am I going to do with a nice guy who wants to be a minister?”
“Why are you so terrified someone’s going to fall in love with you?” Beka didn’t answer. “I thought that was the whole point.” Devon rolled her futon bed back into a couch, fluffed the pillow, and tossed it up to her friend. A ghostly mist swirled around the World Trade towers making them look as sober and cold as she felt. “Are you so afraid of love that you can only sleep with strangers?”
Beka leaned over the edge of her loft bed. “I spend so much time being ‘a dancer,’ I don’t know who the real me is anymore.”
“Beka, there are people in this world who care about you no matter who or what you are. You could be a secretary and we would still love you. Maybe Todd would, too.”
Beka’s eyes lit with fear—the thought of being like everyone else terrified her more than anything else. Performers had to want to stand out in the crowd or they would never be able to handle the stress of the stage, but Beka also seemed panicked by the idea of being singled out. Her desire for fame was equal to her longing for anonymity, and it was an inner struggle that seemed to be taking its toll on her. Devon was more concerned about the self-destructive tendencies that Beka’s career brought with it than Beka becoming a world-renowned dancer.
“Todd’s just like everyone else. He even has my autograph.”
“He told you that?”
“See, I’m nothing. I’m just a fantasy.”
“Well, Fantasia, when you come back to earth we mere mortals will be in the living room.” Devon walked down the hall leaving the diva to ponder her life. Alex, Maddie, and Godwyn were already up and working on a pitcher of Bloody Marys, and the furnace blasted semi-warm air across their heads as Devon sat down to join the hungover group.
Alex handed her a glass. “Hair of the dog?”
“Any news?” Devon took the drink.
“Sam is still looking for him,” Alex muttered, so quiet Devon almost couldn’t hear her.
Somewhere in the tangle of thoughts Devon lost all sense of time and slept. Her thoughts were entwined with nonsensical dreams, but something awakened her.
She’d forgotten to call Alexandra. The clock said ten-thirty p.m. It was time for her to get up anyway. Boo’s tail thumped against the bed as Devon reached over and rubbed the spots on his head. She picked up the phone and called Alex’s number in East Hampton. The answering machine picked up. “Alex, I’m working 12-to-7s this week, so I’ll have to meet you in the city tomorrow. I’m going to go in straight from work. See you about one.” She didn’t say Happy New Year and didn’t mention anything about Beka and Gabe—that wasn’t the sort of thing to leave on a machine, especially if Alex hadn’t heard yet. Tomorrow the papers would have the story and everyone would know. The less Devon had to talk about it, the better.
She had just enough time to stop and get a bite to eat on her way to work. She called Concha D’Oro’s and ordered a meatball sub to go, then got dressed for another night of work. She kissed her dog’s forehead and patted his ears. “I’m off, buddy. See you tomorrow.” She always talked to him intelligently.
His gold-brown eyes stared up at her inquisitively.
“Does a dog have Buddha nature?” she asked out loud. He tilted his head as if to answer her question with complete comprehension. “It doesn’t take months of meditation to know the answer to that koan.” She rubbed his ear so his right lip curled up in a smile. “Just a really great dog.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Deluding passions are inexhaustible; I vow to destroy them.
—THE FOUR VOWS IN ZEN
Hair? Lochwood mulled over the problem of Beka’s hair. He was anxious to interview Hans but didn’t feel it was appropriate to drive all the way out to the East End and conduct the interview without his partner. The information Hans had would wait until Gary came back on at midnight—not everyone could work like Lochwood did, on two or three hours of sleep a night.
He flipped through his notes. The other interviews they had conducted with the neighbors had not been helpful. The Imamura-Montebello’s closest neighbor lived over a quarter-mile away and was not a busybody. No one had seen anything. He had run the crime through all the standard scenarios, but so far the favorite was murder/suicide; nothing else added up right. As artists, Beka and Gabriel may have had their enemies, but enough for this kind of revenge? This was the age of guns: quick, easy, deliverable death that was completely impersonal. Knives were rarely used in premeditated crimes anymore; they were the instruments of impassioned rage, and as hard as it was to believe that Beka had stabbed her husband to death, finding someone else to fit that scenario was even more unlikely.
They still had to track down the staff at Beka and Edilio’s Pilates studio in Sag Harbor; that was the problem with holidays—no one worked. The chance of a disgruntled staff member committing such a bloody murder was unlikely. The murderer, if it wasn’t Beka, had to be familiar with sword strokes, and know enough about forensic evidence to cover both tracks and anything else that might have left a trace of his presence at the scene. And this mythic kind of criminal would have wanted both of the victims dead, very badly, and would have had to devote enormous amounts of time and energy to the task. Such a murderer had to have known them well enough to get access to the house with no struggle, and manipulate the scene so it looked like Beka Imamura was the guilty party. It wasn’t impossible; it was just more likely that Beka had blown a gasket and killed her husband.
The question Loch was currently mulling over in his head was when and how to ask Devon about Beka. He had to question her; they both knew that, but he wanted to get her when she was rested and clear-headed. He thought about beeping her, then thought better of it. She needed her sleep; besides, she’d be at work in an hour or two. Shutting the case file, he
leaned back in his chair. His mind slowed along with his breathing and in a few minutes his head fell forward onto his chest. After twenty-eight hours, Lochwood Brennen, infamous for his insomnia, finally fell asleep.
The next thing he felt was the warm breath of a kiss on his neck. “Sleeping on the job?” Devon’s voice was husky and low.
He smiled. “Two hours ago.”
“About the time I woke up,” she teased him gently, familiarly.
He hadn’t realized how worried he’d been about her until he heard her voice sounding lighter and more animated. “Sorry we missed dinner.”
“I needed to regroup. Did you go home?”
He nodded. “Briefly. Brea’s moving out.” He saw the light of hope leap to her eyes and watched as she smothered the internal glow. Every once in a while he glimpsed these moments and wondered what would happen to them—five years was a long time, like a marriage. He tried not to think about how hard it was for Devon to be in love with a man who already had a family. He’d never lied to her about his situation, and she’d never forced him to make any decisions. But she was waiting for him, he knew that, and from the look on her face he’d just given her a reason to hope that the wait might soon be over.
“She’s growing up.” She sounded so understanding.
“I’m not ready.”
“You never will be. Oh, I forgot—there’s a reunion. Tomorrow.” His face fell. Loch was not big on socializing. “The loftmates are getting together. We’re meeting at Number One Chinese Restaurant for dim sum.”
The food was tempting but Loch nonetheless declined. “There’s so much to do.”
“I just want you to know that you’re getting out of it only because I’d rather you stay here and figure out that Beka did not kill Gabe. Work all day.” She smiled at him good-naturedly.
“Thanks.” He was genuinely relieved. “We have a number of people to interview in Sag Harbor, especially her business partner Edilio.” He looked at his case notes. “And we need to get hold of their lawyer. Do you know him?”
“Some New York City muck-a-muck, Goldberg or Goldstein.”
“Goldstein. I might come into the city later to interview him.” He felt insecure suggesting he meet her in the city and wasn’t sure why.
“That’d be nice. He also has a place in Sag. Ask Aileen—she walks his dog.”
Maybe she didn’t want him to come in and meet her.
“Have you notified Beka’s uncles yet?” she asked.
“I called the local authorities in Honolulu and asked them to contact the family in person. They called to let me know that the Imamuras have been informed and are expecting our call. I was waiting for you to come in.” He reached over to the phone, punched the speaker button, then dialed the number.
She cleared her throat as the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Imamura?”
“Is this the detective in New York?”
“Detective Brennen, yes sir. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“We can’t believe our Beka is gone.”
“Biz?” Devon’s voice wavered as she said his name out loud. “It’s Devon.”
“Oh my, Devon. You’re there, too?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m on the case, Biz.”
“Thank god. Will you find out what happened?”
“I’m going to try, Biz.”
“You know, we waited at the airport for an hour but she wasn’t on the plane,” Bismarck shouted into the phone. “She was supposed to be on the seven o’clock plane this morning, but she never arrived.”
“Why was she flying New Year’s Eve?” Devon asked.
“She couldn’t get an earlier flight.”
“Mr. Imamura, we didn’t know she was coming to Hawaii. You’re sure about that?” Loch asked.
“As sure as we can ever be with Beka’s plans. She tends to change her mind a lot, and she always flew on the family buddy pass, so … But she was leaving Gabe and coming home.” He spoke quickly and loudly, as if the phone line was going to go dead any second or the operator was going to bust in and ask for another quarter. “I never liked him. Such a bastard. She didn’t tell you about her plans, Dev?”
“No.”
“What was up with you two? She used to tell you everything, then she tells me you aren’t talking to her.”
“We had a disagreement, Biz. It was nothing.”
“Must have been something for her not to tell you she was leaving Gabe.”
“I’ve been real busy lately.”
“You mainlanders always too busy.”
“Mr. Imamura, do you know why she was leaving Gabe?” Lochwood asked.
“Hated him.” He spat the words out.
“Was there any abuse, or violence?”
“I dunno. If she’d made it home she might have told us what was going on, but you know Beka. She’ll bite any bullet for a good show.”
Devon nodded. She had stopped in at rehearsal once when Beka and Edilio were working with the International Dance Company and seen the creative director screaming at them. Beka was sitting on the floor squeezing her toes, tears streaming down her face while the creative director ranted and raved about some mistake she had made. Then she silently got up and tried the sequence again.
“How’s Edilio taking it?” Biz asked.
“We haven’t been able to locate him yet.”
“He’s not dead too is he?”
“No, why?”
“He was supposed to be with Beka on the plane.”
“He was coming to Hawaii, too?” Loch was making notes quickly but had time to catch Devon’s eye.
“They were going to start a Pilates studio here.”
“If you hear from him, would you notify us, Mr. Imamura?”
“Yeah-yeah.” He used the colloquial yes, merged into one word, that was common to the islands. “Bert and I are catching the morning flight to New York tomorrow. Your parents are picking us up at JFK, Dev. We’ll be at their house.”
“Good.”
“Yeah, your mother is helping us arrange a memorial service. Detective Brennen, the coroner is holding Beka’s body. Can you get them to release her?”
“I’ll see what I can do about that, sir,” Lochwood assured him.
“They may still be looking for forensic evidence to prove her innocence,” Devon added.
“Innocent of what? Killing that bastard? He deserved whatever he got and I’ll tell you what, I hope Beka was the one to give it to him.”
She couldn’t believe what Biz was saying. “But they were friends before they got married, Biz.”
“You never been married, Dev, what you know about vengeance?” The phones crackled as if the distance were a strain on them. “Besides, Beka was Gabe’s idea of a tax write-off. He may have immortalized her with his art, but she paid a price for the privilege. You find out what was really going on.”
“Okay, Biz. See you at Mom’s.”
Lochwood interrupted. “Mr. Imamura, one last thing, can you think of any reason Beka would have cut her hair?”
“Cut her hair? No way. Why?”
“It’s not a Japanese thing?” Loch asked.
“I dunno, we’re American.”
Another voice broke into the conversation. “Biz.” It was Uncle Bert. “She cut it off when her parents died, swore she’d never cut it again.”
Loch made a note: She cut her hair once before due to death in the family. Was she anticipating her husband’s death? Or, like he had thought earlier, was she trying to give herself an alibi after slipping Gabe a Mickey? “Thank you, sir, you’ve been very helpful.”
“See what you can do about getting our girl outta that morgue. Beka wouldn’t want to stay in there long. We got a place for her all picked out, right on the hill overlooking the bay at the Byodo-In Buddhist Temple.”
“She would have loved that,” Devon said.
“Yeah-yeah, if it’s the only way we can get her home then that’s wh
at we’ll do. She never should have left the island. No offense, but you mainlanders are crazy.”
“Have a safe flight, Biz. See you soon.” Devon leaned forward over the desk and punched the speaker button off.
Lochwood looked like a bloodhound with a scent; his eyes were glazed and his lips moist. Now there were two more things nagging him—the hair and the fact that no one, not Devon, not Jenny O’Doherty, knew that Beka was leaving her husband.
Why had it been so secret?
That was the scenario for an abused wife—to flee in the middle of the night with no one the wiser. But from what Jenny O’Doherty had reported, it was Beka who was the more violent and volatile of the two. She was the one who broke the front door by slamming it too hard, smashed a set of plates—a wedding gift from a local artist—and an expensive raku vase. But when Loch had asked what the rows had been about, Jenny’s response had been noncommittal, as if flamboyant fights were a regular occurrence. It seemed like they loved to fight and they loved to make up publicly.
“What about this Edilio Ferraro? What do you know about him?” he asked Devon.
“Dance partner. Business partner. She started working with him when she joined the company in ’82. They worked their way up until they became partners in ’84.” He fingered the case file. “You need to ask me about Beka,” she said. It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t say a word. “Come on, let’s do it.”
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. Let’s get it over with so I can get to work.” She sat down in his spare chair, propped her feet up on his desk, and leaned back.
He paused, scanning her face for any unwillingness, then asked her directly, “Why would Beka cut her hair?”
“The question is not why but where.” She felt like Hans.
“Huh?”
“Her favorite room to sit in was the small one, not the main room. If she were doing some kind of ritual she would have performed it for the Weeping Buddha.”
“You sure about that?”
“That’s the only thing I feel sure of.”
“Despite what happened between you two?”
The Weeping Buddha Page 11
