Scarlett Undercover

by Jennifer Latham

  “I’ve got a few more questions,” I said once she’d stashed the unused paper in a desk drawer.

  “I thought you might.” She pushed the goggles onto her forehead and smiled the first real smile I’d seen on her Kewpie doll face.

  “I’m going to figure this out, kid,” I said, which made her smile even bigger.

  Just like I’d hoped it would.

  3

  I took my time walking back to the bus stop, window-shopping as I went. Four blocks later, I’d managed to pick something up without spending a dime.

  I had a tail.

  She was tall and blonde and white as marble, with clothes that matched her skin and a face like a cemetery angel. Her tail job wasn’t subtle; she slowed when I slowed, stopped when I stopped, and was either lousy at her job or didn’t care if I spotted her.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been followed. Not by a long shot. Still, I took a second to screw my head on straight. Get over it and ditch her, I told myself, and started glancing up and down cross streets for a metro station, wondering what I’d done or who I’d ticked off enough to earn myself a shadow.

  I’d gone nearly six blocks when a crowd of men and women spilled out of the building to my left and blocked the sidewalk in front of me. They were damp-headed, glassy-eyed, and moving slow. FYRE, the sign over the door said. HOT YOGA STUDIO.

  I shifted toward the curb, brushed up against a parked SUV, noticed the second tail. This one was short. Turquoise streaked through her square-banged black hair. She wore skintight yoga clothes and carried a mat across her back, but she wasn’t sluggish or soaked like the yogis leaving the studio. Her getup was all for show.

  Shorty moved behind me; Blondie stuck close to the shops. I cleared the crowd, picked up my pace. At the next intersection, I caught sight of a station entrance a hundred yards to my right and crossed fast against the light, metro card in my hand before I hit the turnstiles. I swiped it, went through, looked back. My tails might not have used public transportation enough to have a pass, but they jumped stiles like pros. I kept moving, cutting behind strollers and slow-moving tourists. The pair stayed close, rolling off my picks like WNBA point guards.

  The sound of an incoming train rumbled up the stairs to my left. I banked hard, ran down, dove through the mass of people shuffling toward the platform’s edge. By the time the train screeched to a stop, I’d put three cars’ worth of space between the pale women and me. The train doors opened. I hopped on. Three cars down, so did they. I hugged the pole just inside the door, fighting the crush of bodies as it tried to push me farther inside, ignoring the nasty looks I got for my trouble. The platform cleared. I crouched low and waited for the recorded voice to tell us to stand clear of the closing doors. The voice came. The doors’ hydraulics kicked in. I dove for the platform.

  All of me made it through. All of my clothes did not.

  One corner of my jacket was pinched tight between the sealed doors, and I’d read enough horror stories in the paper to know that these were old, unforgiving trains with safety features that hadn’t been state of the art since 1960. I dropped my bag, threw my shoulders back, and slipped the jacket off just in time to watch it disappear into the dark mouth of the tunnel ahead.

  My eyes shifted to the car windows gliding past. This was supposed to be the fun part—the part where I got to grin a shit-eating grin and wave a smart-assed wave as my tails rolled helplessly by. Trouble was, they weren’t on the train; they were fifteen yards down the platform and closing fast.

  Turned out I wasn’t so clever after all.

  I made for the stairs to my right, trying to forget how much longer Blondie’s legs were than mine. In a fair fight, I’d win nine times out of ten. Going two-against-one changed those odds, and not in my favor. So when I spotted a transit cop leaning against the ticket window, I nixed the idea of taking on the pair myself and hoofed it over to him fast.

  “Sir, I saw two women back there acting really strange.”

  I was trying hard to catch my breath. He was trying hard to keep his eyes on my face instead of my chest.

  “They went up to this abandoned bag sitting on a bench. It might have just been a yoga mat, but…” I dropped my head lower so he’d realize it wasn’t my T-shirt talking. “I heard them say something to each other, and one of them picked it up. I know it’s probably nothing, but with all the signs around saying we should report anything suspicious…”

  I’d picked the right story. My chest got a lot less interesting.

  “Is that them?” He pointed to my tails as they stopped short behind the turnstiles just a few feet away. It was the first head-on look at them I’d had, the first time I’d noticed the rings of pale gold circling the outside edges of their irises. All the better to see you with, my dear, I thought, shaking off a shudder and nodding to the cop.

  “Stay put,” he said.

  I gave him my good-girl smile. “Yes, sir.”

  My tails bolted. The cop took off running. Once he’d cleared the turnstile, I headed up to the street, took a quick look around to make sure I was really alone, and told myself I’d have to do something about my problem with authority.

  Later.

  I snagged the first taxi I came to and slid down low in the slippery vinyl seat. The rolling lilt of a Hindi radio show filled the cab so that when I gave the driver my address, I couldn’t tell if he was nodding at me or agreeing with the announcer. It wasn’t until angry honks blared around us and we’d picked up speed that I sat tall, drew a full breath, and considered the particulars of my situation.

  Since the Archer case was the only one to come across my desk in the last few weeks, it stood to reason that the women I’d just ditched had gone on the job sometime between Gemma showing up at my office and me leaving her place. That meant Oliver must have called them in, and that meant things were getting hot. Fast.

  Back in Gemma’s room, I’d squeezed her for more info on her family. She’d filled me in on Archer Construction and her mother’s interior design business, told me how she and Oliver went to Chandler Academy, a ritzy private school where tuition cost an arm and two legs. I didn’t like that she spent a lot of time alone in the apartment with her brother, but the way she told it, he’d all but ignored her for the last month. “He’s not home much, and when he is, he mostly stays in his room or Dad’s office,” she’d said. “He never bugs me anymore.”

  Still, I’d made her promise to stay out of Oliver’s way. “Act normal, don’t go in his room, and don’t let on that you think anything’s wrong,” I’d said. It had seemed like enough of a warning at the time. Now I wasn’t so sure. I took out my phone and dialed.

  “Hello?” Her voice was shaky as an old man on skates.

  “It’s Scarlett,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  Nothing came back but the fast breathing of a scared little girl.

  “Gemma? Are you okay?”

  “Oliver’s really mad because I went into his room,” she said.

  Shit.

  I’d screwed up somehow, and now the kid was in trouble.

  “It’s just Mom again, Oliver,” Gemma hollered, her voice loud but blunted, like she’d turned her head away from the phone. “I told her I’m sorry for messing with your stuff.”

  “Are you safe there, Gemma?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, Mom. It’s no big deal.”

  I could hear the lie in her voice. It made me uneasy. Oliver made me uneasy. And I was starting to think that the less time Gemma spent around him, the better off she’d be.

  “Listen,” I said, “is there anyone you could go stay with for a few days?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get yourself over there today?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Do it, and sooner rather than later. Once you’re settled in, send me the address. And don’t let Oliver get ahold of your phone. I don’t want him figuring out you weren’t talking to your mom.”

  “Sure, Mom. I can do that.
But you know, things are so crazy I might not be able to finish my book report this weekend. Maybe I should stay home with Aunt Lucy on Monday so she can help me.”

  Smart, I thought. Gemma was telling me where she was going and asking if she should avoid being near Oliver at school, all in the same clever breath.

  “Go to school,” I said, “but only straight there and straight back home to your aunt’s. Take everything you’ll need for a few days, and stay close to adults you trust.”

  “All right, Mom. Love you.”

  “Be careful,” I said.

  “You too,” she answered. And hung up.

  Yeah, I thought, keeping my phone in my hand, knowing it was going to stay there until Gemma sent word that she’d gotten to her aunt’s. Me too.

  4

  I had the taxi drop me off in a section of brownstones well south of our apartment so I could walk and clear my head. It was a quiet neighborhood, full of doctors’ offices and law firms and white-tablecloth restaurants with bored-looking waiters. The smells coming from kitchen exhaust fans set my stomach singing, but I had a different kind of joint in mind for lunch. The kind where fries came with gravy, and the up-yours ambiance came from the heart.

  Half an hour later, I walked through the door of the Rubicon Diner and made straight for my favorite booth. I was lucky it was available; the place was packed.

  WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE, SO DON’T PISS US OFF. That was what the sign taped to the hostess stand said, and that was what Delilah meant. “My place, my rules,” she’d say. “You don’t like it, take it up with Decker.” The way she figured, one look at all six-foot-muscled-six of her son would end any dispute on the spot. And Delilah almost always figured right.

  The diner’s walls were plastered with so many photos, sketches, signs, autographed sugar packets, and soup can labels that you could spend hours studying the place and only see half of what was there. As a little girl, I’d loved each and every tacky bit of it. Then, on a cold December day two years earlier, Deck’s fingertips had brushed my hand as he reached to refill an empty water glass. He’d mumbled an apology and pulled back fast, but when his eyes lingered on mine like a slow kiss, I’d known it hadn’t been an accident. That was the day the decorations turned to faded paper, the moment a boy I’d known all my life had become something… more.

  “Afternoon, Scarlett.”

  Delilah leaned a hip against my table. She was big-bosomed and bowlegged, and wore her scattershot black-and-gray curls pinned carelessly at the top of her head. I’d never seen her in anything but khakis and a T-shirt.

  “Hi, Delilah. How about some banana pancakes?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “How about you tell me what you’ve been up to?”

  “Aw, come on. I’m starving.”

  “I only feed kids who stay out of trouble. You staying out of trouble?”

  Delilah had been my mother’s best friend. She’d promised to keep an eye on me, and it was a job she took to heart.

  I slumped against the duct-taped banquette and set my phone close by on the table. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m staying out of trouble.”

  “Yeah or yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Delilah pinched her lips tight.

  “I still say it was a mistake letting you graduate early. No kid as smart as you should get cut loose on the streets for two years with nothing better to do than nose around in other people’s business. You should have gone straight to college.”

  In my mind I rolled my eyes. In reality I knew better.

  “You know I was bored out of my skull in high school, Delilah. If they hadn’t let me test out early, they’d have ended up tossing me instead. Besides, my nosing around in other people’s business got the Bus Stop Killer off the streets, didn’t it? The cops never would have caught the guy if I hadn’t tracked down the kids who saw him grab his last victim.”

  Delilah sniffed.

  “That Detective Morales shouldn’t have gotten you involved in the first place. If I were your sister, I’d tell him exactly where to stick that badge of his.”

  I laughed. “Emmet’s a good guy, Delilah.”

  She leaned in close, one hand on the table.

  “Then he should be figuring out who murdered your father, not letting you play detective, thinking you’re gonna catch the monster yourself.”

  My throat pinched down tight. She’d hit a nerve best left alone, and it must have shown.

  Delilah sagged into her heels. “I shouldn’t have said that, hon. I’m sorry.”

  “How about those pancakes?” I kept my voice steady. It took some doing.

  “Gimme a tall stack with monkey chow, Deck,” she hollered toward the kitchen. Her voice cut through the room’s loud hum of conversation like a dentist’s drill. Delilah only cared about etiquette when it wasn’t hers.

  “Comin’ up, Ma!” Decker called back.

  Delilah looked at me, lips pursed.

  “You drinking coffee?”

  “I am.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “So you say, every time I come in.”

  She waved her hand like I was an especially pesky fly and walked off. I’d get my coffee in the end, but only when Delilah was good and ready.

  In the meanwhile, I spread one of the rubbings from Oliver Archer’s door out on the table and ran a finger over the design. I knew I’d seen it before, but the harder I tried to think where, the more I couldn’t. I was still pondering the thing a few minutes later when Delilah came back.

  “Whatcha got there?”

  “Some kind of symbol. Do you know it?”

  She looked down, drew in a sharp breath, jerked back so fast that coffee sloshed out of the thick brown mug on her tray.

  “Hmm,” I said. “My keen detective skills tell me you do.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “It’s from a case,” I said. “Why? You recognize it?”

  She looked at me, silent as stone.

  “What’s the matter, Delilah? Are you gonna tell me about it or not?”

  “Whatever you’re up to, drop it now.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Get the hell off the streets and ship out to college like you should have done a long time ago.”

  I wasn’t much of a sigher, but for Delilah, I made an exception. “You’re wrong about my work, Delilah. It keeps me out of trouble. Now what’s the deal?”

  “No, you’re wrong, Scarlett. And you’re about to run up against the kind of trouble that doesn’t give second chances.”

  “Delilah…”

  Her palm shot up, cutting me off. “I can’t talk to you right now.” She slammed my coffee down, did an about-face, and walked away.

  A few minutes later, Decker came out of the kitchen carrying a plate stacked high with pancakes. I tilted the rubbing toward my chest and tried not to notice how tight his shirt was, or how his grin made everything go wobbly from my belly button down. As he wove his way around the restaurant’s tight-packed tables, I reminded myself that romances were a lot harder to keep alive than friendships. Don’t hold on, I thought, and you’ll never have to let go.

  And then he was at my side, grin and all.

  “What’d you do to piss Ma off so bad?”

  “Damned if I know,” I said. “How’s school?”

  “Same old.” He set my pancakes in front of me. “Hasn’t been nearly as much fun since you left. Still doing jujitsu?”

  “Muay Thai. And yeah, I train when I can.”

  “Have you told your sister yet?”

  “Sure, Deck, I told Reem all about it.” There was enough vinegar in my voice to pickle the words. “She said the imam at our mosque would think it’s swell that I spend so much time fighting sweaty, half-naked guys and learning Buddhist rituals. Just nifty.”

  Decker laughed. “Relax. I’m just yanking your chain.” He looked around the diner to make sure everyone had food, then wedged himself in across from me. I could feel the heat from his legs thro
ugh the fabric of my jeans.

  “Whatcha got there?” He pointed at my chest.

  “If you haven’t figured out what those are, Deck, it’s time you and Delilah had The Talk.”

  He smiled, not nearly so embarrassed as I wanted him to be. “You know what I mean, smartass.”

  “Oh… the paper,” I said. “Right.”

  He waited. I poured syrup on my pancakes and cut off a forkful.

  “Show me.” He leaned forward, touched my hand to stop me from taking a bite. My heart skipped a beat or three. I handed him the papers.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  “What is it?” I asked. “I know I’ve seen it before. I just can’t think where.”

  “Where’d this come from?”

  “Like I told Delilah, it’s from a case.”

  He leaned back. Tried to look nonchalant. “You probably saw it in your mosque.”

  A light flashed on in my brain, but only a dim one. Deck was right; the same design ran through the tile work on our mosque’s floor. But that wasn’t where I remembered it from. Not really.

  “It’s in our synagogue, too,” he went on. “It’s called a Solomon’s knot.”

  “What?”

  “You know, King Solomon? The guy who said he’d divide the baby in half if the two women arguing over it couldn’t decide whose it was?”

  “Yeah. Sure,” I said. “In Islam he’s a prophet—peace be upon him. He knew the real mother wouldn’t want the baby killed, so he gave it to the one who said she’d rather lose it than let it die.”

  “Right.” Deck nodded. “Well, some people think that since the design’s a never-ending link, it symbolizes power—magic, even—and that it’s called Solomon’s knot because the king had magical powers himself.”

  “And?”

  “And people all over the world have used it in their weaving and painting and stuff since forever. Different religions, different cultures—it’s everywhere.”

  “So why’d Delilah go off on me like that?” I said.