Painted Skins

by Matt Hilton

  Bruin wafted a hand towards the exit. ‘If you change your mind about my offer, please let me know. But you’re right: talking like this isn’t serving any purpose for now. I’ve work to do, as I’m sure have you. Don’t let me keep you if it means stopping you from finding Jasmine.’ He smiled with as little sincerity as the smile Tess returned.

  No handshakes were offered.

  Tess moved for the door and Po followed. In her peripheral vision she saw Po crouch, and she’d no illusion about what for. From his boot he retrieved a knife, which he used to scratch something from under a fingernail as he walked. The display wasn’t lost on Bruin: he had a knifeman in John Trojak, but Tess also had hers.

  SEVEN

  ‘So what was all that about?’ Tess asked as Po drove away.

  ‘I had gunk under my nail,’ said Po.

  ‘I’m not talking about your stunt with the knife.’

  ‘The job offer?’

  ‘Everything he said,’ Tess corrected.

  ‘The guy’s a royal a-hole. He just can’t help himself.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s someone to be underestimated.’

  ‘He isn’t. But he’s still an a-hole.’

  ‘You’ll get no argument from me.’ As they followed the road, they paralleled the shoreline of Portland Harbor. The sun was arcing for the western horizon, and the sea had grown choppier as the tidal breeze lifted. The water was marked by deep shadows in the troughs, scintillating twinkles at their peaks. Occasional flashes were dazzling. Tess donned her shades. ‘His reason for looking for Jasmine was a lie.’

  ‘F’sure.’

  ‘So what’s his real interest? You don’t think that he’s her …’ She faltered on the suggestion.

  ‘Father? Could be. It would explain how he knows Margaret, and dislikes her so much. Guys don’t like their mothers-in-law, as a rule.’

  Tess snorted at his lame comment. ‘Even if he is Jasmine’s biological father, he never married her mother. Margaret can’t be his mother-in-law.’

  ‘I wasn’t being literal.’

  ‘Speaking of “literal”, what was all that Evangeline stuff about?’

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe he was digging for dirt on me, and thought his best chance of learning something was through lateral questioning.’

  ‘It worked,’ she pointed out.

  ‘He knows I’m not the knuckle-scraper he first suspected. He knows I come from original Acadian stock, but not why I returned to my ancestral lands.’

  ‘Your people originally came from Maine?’ Tess asked. She’d never given the subject much thought. But now that Bruin had raised the subject of Evangeline, a poem following an Acadian girl’s search for her lost love, after the forced expulsion by the British of the Acadians during the French and Indian War, it made her wonder about his heritage. She already knew that some Acadians were relocated to Louisiana, where the pronunciation of their name became ‘Cajun’, but she’d never considered that his ancestors had originally resided in Maine.

  ‘What do you know about your family tree?’ he asked, being ironic. ‘Can you go back three hundred years?’

  She was a genealogist by training, having majored in history and cultural anthropology at Husson University before becoming a deputy. She was certain she could trace back her lineage to the Mayflower if she put her mind to it. But it shamed her to admit that beyond her great-grandparents on her mother’s side she knew nothing about her ancestors. On her father’s branch of the family she knew little beyond her grandfather, an NYC cop murdered during a convenience-store robbery, but for a few unfamiliar names and hazy dates. She stayed quiet.

  ‘He was only trying to be smart,’ Po suggested. ‘I think he’d have enjoyed himself if he’d had to explain himself to an ignorant fool. He didn’t get that opportunity.’

  ‘What about this Trojak guy?’ Tess asked.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Don’t you think we should go and speak with him?’

  ‘Not sure that would be a good idea yet.’ Po turned his Mustang off Fore Street, heading across town for Cumberland Avenue, to check in with Tess’s occasional employer, Emma Clancy. Following the investigation into the Albert Sower case, Emma had relocated her private investigative business from Baxter Boulevard after her original office was burned down.

  ‘You’re probably right. But I’m not ready to speak to Emma yet.’ Tess helped rescue Emma after she was abducted and marked for death by Sower’s henchmen, and had been rewarded by her, regularly sub-contracting work to her and – in an off-the-books capacity – to Po. However, the case concerning Jasmine Reed was a private job. ‘Can you drop me at my place?’

  ‘We’re headed that way.’ Tess also happened to live on Cumberland Avenue, on the upper floor of a small building housing an antiques and curios shop. ‘I should go and check in with Charley while you do what you have to do.’

  ‘You can read me like a book,’ she noted with a smile.

  ‘Uh-huh. You want to go and dig up what connections you can to Daryl Bruin. Why not save yourself some time and speak with Margaret Norris? I’m sure she might be able to enlighten you.’

  ‘You could be right. But you know me: it’s all about the details. I want to learn what I can so I can determine the truth about him, not just get a jaded impression from a woman who might dislike him as much as he obviously hates her.’

  ‘You wondered earlier if Bruin was Jasmine’s father. I don’t see it. Unless he was a boy when he slept with her mother, I think he’s too young. You will most likely check, he looks older because of the way he styles himself, but I’m betting he’s only in his early thirties.’

  Tess nodded. But her mind was turning over possibilities. ‘This Trojak,’ she said. ‘He’s not averse to using a knife. Both Max Carter and the bartender, Chris, mentioned Jasmine was once attacked and cut badly. You don’t think her attacker was Trojak?’

  ‘I wondered. Not sure we can come to any firm conclusion until we speak with Jasmine.’

  He drove her to her house, pulling up alongside the kerb outside the antiques shop.

  ‘Want to come on up?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll never get any work done then.’ He smiled wryly.

  She mimed looking at the wristwatch she didn’t wear. ‘You’re still on the clock. Recreation time is for after work, not before.’

  ‘Guessed you might say that. No, I’d best get to the autoshop and check that Charley has everything in hand.’

  ‘Give that old devil a hug from me,’ she said, and the frown she received wasn’t totally unexpected.

  ‘I’m only happy you don’t want me to pass on a kiss,’ Po said.

  ‘Nah, this one’s just for you.’ She leaned over and pecked him on the lips. ‘Down-payment for later,’ she added.

  He gunned the engine as he drove away, and Tess watched from the sidewalk as he headed for a less salubrious area of town. Once he’d turned on to High Street, she pulled off her shades and headed up the slope for the stairs at the side of the building: they allowed access to her apartment without having to enter the shop. Because of the lingering heat the shop door was wedged open, and inside, sitting behind a counter and reading a paperback novel, was the owner, Mrs Ridgeway. Normally when spotting Tess she’d pass the time with chit-chat, and usually Tess welcomed the gossip: the book must have been an engrossing read because she didn’t look up, for which Tess was grateful, because she was eager to get on with her research. She took the wooden steps quietly, and made it up to her apartment, her key ready to unlock the door, before Mrs Ridgeway appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Tess fought hard to conceal the sigh of regret that rushed through her body. ‘Oh! Hi there, Mrs Ridgeway. Sorry, I wasn’t deliberately being rude; I saw you were reading and didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Please, Tess. How long have we been friends? Call me Ann.’

  ‘Of course, Ann. Sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry, no need. In fact, I can tell you’re busy, so
I won’t keep you.’ Ann Ridgeway was a small woman, thin to the point Tess was in fear of her drying up and blowing away on the hot breeze. She wore her grey hair cropped short, and her spectacles on a beaded lanyard around her neck. She toyed with the lanyard with the fervour of a Catholic rubbing a rosary. ‘I only thought to mention you had a visitor while you were out. I must say … I found it all a little odd.’

  ‘Odd?’ Tess echoed. Occasionally her brother Alex called by, and one time even her mother had arrived unannounced. As judgemental about Tess’s living arrangements as she was about every other aspect of her life, her mother’s visit had been blessedly short and she was yet to return. Po had been to her apartment on numerous occasions, but he was her only regular visitor these days. Mrs Ridgeway knew Tess had a small circle of friends, so took note of any strangers who came by.

  ‘He was a strange one. Wouldn’t give me a name, and wouldn’t state his business, but I caught him up there, peering through the door glass as if checking you were in or not. I didn’t hear him knock or ring the bell. Usually I can hear everything: these old wooden buildings carry noises. There are times when I wonder if the place is haunted the odd things I hear when I know you’re not home …’ She chuckled at the suggestion, or maybe it was because she’d realized she was prattling on. ‘Were you expecting a visitor?’

  ‘No,’ said Tess. ‘He wasn’t a delivery guy?’

  ‘No. He was wearing a suit and tie. Neat greying hair. Carrying a few extra pounds, too. Not fat, but bulk. I heard him wheezing when he came down the steps, but I don’t think it was from the effort of climbing up there. My guess is he was annoyed to find you gone. When I asked what he wanted, he practically ignored me, brushed past like I wasn’t there. He looked well presented, but the thing I recall most about him was his smell. Body odour … woo!’ She wafted a hand under her nose. ‘That fella was due a shower and change of drawers if you ask me.’

  ‘Did you notice what he was driving?’

  ‘He had a car parked, but I’m sorry, I don’t know about makes and models. If it helps it was blue. Actually, come to think of it, the colour was more like the aquamarine of your gentleman friend’s eyes.’

  She meant Po. His eyes were noticeable because they were turquoise, an eye colour not very prominent in their neighbourhood.

  ‘And he didn’t say anything?’ Tess pressed.

  ‘No. Not a thing. Perhaps he pushed a card under your door, but I didn’t see him with a pen or paper.’

  Curiosity was burning at Mrs Ridgeway, and if Tess allowed it she’d gladly read any note left by the mystery man, but Tess had no intention of urging her up the stairs. ‘Well, it’s odd as you said. But if his visit was important I’m sure he’ll call again.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out. If I see him again, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Ridgeway … uh, Ann. Now, I’d best get inside. This heat, huh? If I don’t shower and change, my visitor won’t be the only one turning up people’s noses.’

  Tess keyed open the door, glancing at the floor on the chance a note had been slipped underneath. There hadn’t been. She turned back to Mrs Ridgeway. ‘The plot thickens,’ she announced, then before the old woman could get started again she waved, smiled, and closed the door behind her. She waited, counting to ten, heard soft clunks through the floorboards and guessed it was safe to open her door again. She checked, and Mrs Ridgeway had indeed returned to her novel. Tess expertly inspected her door. There were a couple of scratches on the lock, but they were dull, and had probably been made by her. She looked up and down the jamb but there was no sign that the mystery man had tried to force the door. It appeared he’d only done what Mrs Ridgeway witnessed. There were greasy palm prints on the glass. He’d peered inside, but the glass was opaque and he’d have formed no image of her apartment, just a blur of colours and warped shapes.

  She closed the door, and for extra measure shot the bolt.

  There was no blinking light on her answer machine. So the visitor hadn’t called ahead, nor left a voice message after finding her home vacant. She knew she’d received no call on her cell, nor text message or email. If he had been a random caller – a salesman or canvasser – then he wouldn’t have been spying inside. He wouldn’t have been so furtive when confronted by Mrs Ridgeway and would surely have stated his business.

  So what was his intention?

  Who was he?

  If it were whom she suspected, then it gave a feasible answer to her first question.

  She went to her work station, fired up her iMac, brought up Safari, keyed in a name and location.

  John Trojak. Portland, Maine.

  There was little online: a few brief mentions of the name, but nothing to clarify if they were the man she was looking for. She checked for images, but there were none. She logged into another program, bringing up her account with Emma Clancy’s firm. Because Emma worked almost exclusively on behalf of the local district attorney’s office, she had access to databases that most private investigators couldn’t resource. Tess had already left some covert programs running, watching for use of the credit cards in Jasmine Reed’s name and for hits on her cellphone signal, interrogating database systems for anywhere her name appeared, and finding her vehicle’s location via various law-enforcement and government agencies. She was also interrogating social networks. She should really check them for any indication of Jasmine’s whereabouts, but the identity of her mysterious visitor was nibbling at her mind. She skipped over the results of her searches, and found nothing of importance, while mulling over the appearance of Daryl Bruin and John Trojak in her case. She entered a local law-enforcement database and immediately got a ping back on Trojak.

  On screen was a series of photographs, the most recent relating to a case of domestic violence at his family home. She scowled at the report until something jumped out: Trojak was the victim.

  She printed the picture, thought things over, folded the picture once, then headed downstairs to her prime witness. Ann Ridgeway put down her book as Tess entered the shop, took off her spectacles, and allowed them to hang on their lanyard. She’d heard Tess descend the stairs, so knew she wasn’t expecting a customer.

  ‘Hi, Ann,’ Tess said.

  ‘So you did get a note?’ Mrs Ridgeway asked, as she eyed the folded sheet of paper in Tess’s hand.

  ‘No, this is something I printed myself just now. I was wondering if you’d take a look at it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Tess handed over the sheet and waited while Mrs Ridgeway put on her spectacles again, then unfolded the photograph.

  Tess watched Mrs Ridgeway’s face as she pored over the image.

  ‘Well?’ Tess prompted.

  ‘It looks as if this poor thing has been beaten,’ Mrs Ridgeway said. Her nose twitched a couple of times, and she shook her head. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d recognize him.’

  ‘You thought this was the man who was here earlier?’

  Tess nodded. ‘Obviously I was wrong.’

  ‘It’s a different person,’ said Mrs Ridgeway. ‘Even if I ignored the bruising round his eyes and the swelling to his forehead, this here isn’t the man I saw earlier.’

  At a loss, Tess only frowned. Mrs Ridgeway handed back the photo and Tess took it, looked down at it, hoping that at this angle Mrs Ridgeway might study it again and change her mind. The man at her door wasn’t a big deal, but Tess had been certain she could solve the mystery by identifying John Trojak and tying them together.

  All was not lost. Since Trojak had entered their investigation, it was best that she and Po had an idea of what he looked like, because she believed it was inevitable that they’d be meeting soon, and she didn’t want either of them to be off guard when he finally showed up.

  EIGHT

  ‘It sounds as if we should be more concerned about his wife causing trouble than worrying about Trojak,’ said Po.

  ‘That’s not funny.’ Tess scowled at him. ‘Male vict
ims of domestic violence aren’t as rare as people think.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Chill out, Tess. I was only joking.’

  ‘It’s not a laughing matter. It’s a huge problem, only it doesn’t get reported as often as it should.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Po said. But he’d no intention of talking about the subject, or of listening, because he turned away. Tess was positive there was an unfamiliar emotion washing through him. She wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, but there were periods of his life he was yet to share with her, and he wasn’t ready to open up about this one yet. She respected his privacy: sooner or later he’d feel ready to trust her enough to tell her everything. She’d learned some minor details about Po’s murdered father, but his mother remained a complete mystery: had he let slip something he’d attempted to keep secret for years?

  They were at Charley’s Autoshop, in the dingy office at the rear of the workshop area. The room was small, cramped and grimy. The desk was overflowing with oil-smudged paperwork. A couple of chairs, and an ancient PC, practically filled the rest of the limited space, so there was nowhere that Po could escape. He stood with his back to her, as if checking that all was in order in the garage, but she knew he regretted bringing up the issue of domestic violence, and hoped it would pass.

  ‘There was nothing new on Jasmine,’ she offered, to change the subject. ‘But I was able to learn a few things about Daryl Bruin and his pal Trojak.’

  He squinted over his shoulder. He nodded, thankful she’d understood his discomfort and moved on.

  ‘Any reason why they should be hunting for Jasmine?’

  ‘No. But I learned a thing or two why Bruin might feel some kinship with her, enough that he might genuinely want to help Jasmine, as he said.’

  ‘I don’t buy it.’

  ‘Me neither, but we have to consider it.’

  Po returned and sat on the edge of the desk; he’d no option seeing as Tess had claimed his chair, and the second one was piled with old paperwork. He stared at her, his features unmoving.