by Jeff Lindsay
“And so … ahemp,” Matthews said, “I ask you all to hmp. Be watchful, just like Mr. Eissen said.” He smiled down at Eissen, who didn’t appear to notice. “There is really nothing to worry about. With a few precautions. So just tell an officer if you see anything that seems, ah, dangerous.” He frowned, as if he had heard the contradiction in what he had said, which didn’t seem likely to me. Then he turned and stared at Deborah for a moment, before clearing his throat again. “Sergeant Morgan,” he said ominously, and then turned back to face the room, “is familiar with the, ah, appearance. Of the suspect.” He glared at Debs for a moment before going on. “Hmp. And she will be on set,” he said, “for the duration of the filming process. The whole thing.”
Deborah did not move, not even a twitch, but she radiated such angry unhappiness that I could feel it in my seat halfway down the table. Matthews put his stare on her for another long and awkward moment, and then turned back and gave the room a small and spasmodic smile. “So,” he said. “I want to reassure you that we have given this matter our full attention. And I want to say again how happy we are to have you here, in Miami. And I hope you will all get a taste of the real Miami to, ah …” He paused and looked around, as if he had realized what he might be wishing on them, and wondering where he could stack the bodies. “The, uh, South Beach, you know,” he said. “Nightlife. And the beaches.” He nodded at the room, and gave them a manly and confident smile. “Enjoy yourselves,” he said.
And while he was apparently wondering if he had any more to say, Eissen quietly slapped the palms of both hands on the table. “All right,” Eissen said. “Thank you, Captain. And officers.” He nodded once and glanced around the room. “We are all here to do a job. Let’s do it.” He scanned the crowd, possibly to see whether anybody would deny it and go on strike, and when no one did he nodded, stood up, and walked briskly out of the room.
Victor Torrano, the director, stood up from his seat near the head of the table. “All right, people,” he called out, raising his voice over the babble. “We are already two hours behind schedule and we haven’t started shooting yet. Let’s get out there and get busy.” One of the technical people yelled out, “Boo!” Victor shook his head and said, “Keep it up, Harvey. Just remember this is a right-to-work state,” and people laughed and began to move off toward the door.
Victor moved toward the door, too, revealing a tense tableau behind the chair where Eissen had been sitting. Captain Matthews had turned around and was speaking quietly but firmly to Deborah, and she did not look pleased to have his full attention. Anderson stood behind them, head swiveling from one to the other as if he was watching a tennis match. I did not need to read lips to know that Debs was getting a reprimand, and Anderson was loving it.
“Thank God,” Jackie murmured beside me. “Oh, thank God …”
I turned to face her. She was still showing the world a confident, carefree smile, but her voice trembled a bit, and her hand came back and clamped onto mine again under the table. She took a deep and slightly shaky breath, let it out, and then said, “I’m alive.”
“And I’m very glad you are,” I said.
She squeezed my hand, then let it go and stood up. “Let’s find my dressing room,” she said.
I followed her out the door and off along a branching hallway to the right. The first door we passed stood ajar. I glanced in: Both sides of the long room were covered with well-lighted mirrors, and a counter ran the whole length at waist level, a dozen chairs tucked under it. Against the back wall stood a clothing rack filled with cop uniforms, suits, shirts, and pants, with a neat row of shoes on the floor underneath. A piece of tape was stuck on the door at eye level. It said, MEN.
“That’s where you’ll get dressed,” Jackie said. “With the other small-part guys.”
“Small part?” I said.
She smiled and patted my shoulder. “Not the part that counts,” she said.
The next door led to a nearly identical room, but it was labeled WOMEN this time. “You stay out of there,” Jackie said, with a menacing frown. “It’s filled with hussies.”
“Yes, O Mighty One,” I said.
The next door was closed, but labeled RENNY BOUDREAUX. Just past that was ROBERT CHASE, and as we came abreast of it, the door opened and Robert stood there in the doorway, blinking. His eyes flicked to Jackie, then to me; he froze, and he just goggled at me for a few seconds. “Oh,” he said with a strange expression of some kind on his face—shock? Guilt? And then he quickly stepped back and closed the door.
Jackie shook her head. “Fucking weirdo,” she muttered, and then we were at last standing in front of the door labeled JACKIE FOREST. She paused for a minute, looking at her name, and then shook her head. “At least they almost spelled it right,” she said. She looked back along the hallway. “But they always put me last, farthest away.” She made a face. “And right next to Bob, too.”
“Robert,” I said automatically, and Jackie snorted.
“Come on in,” she said, and opened the door.
In most ways, Jackie’s dressing room was a smaller copy of the men’s and women’s. But there was only one chair, in front of a smaller mirror. A table stood next to it, laden with a huge bouquet of fresh-cut flowers, a fruit basket, and a large and gaudy box of very expensive chocolates. Under the table was a small refrigerator, and along the wall opposite there was a soft-looking sofa. A door at the far end of the room stood half open to reveal a bathroom, complete with shower.
“Well,” I said. “So this is how the one percent lives.”
“Squalid,” she said. “But you get used to it.”
Before I could settle onto the sofa with the box of chocolates, a knock sounded on the door and, a moment later, it swung open and Detective Anderson sidled in. He was carrying a large cardboard box and wearing a truly annoying smirk. “Hey, Miss Forrest,” he said.
Jackie raised an eyebrow and put on her smallest smile. “Yes?” she said.
Anderson put the box down on Jackie’s dressing table and stuck out his hand. “Detective Anderson,” he said, smiling at Jackie as if she was a jar of honey and he was a starving bear.
Jackie hesitated, and then shook his hand. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I think I’ve heard your name.”
“Yeah, listen,” Anderson said, still clutching Jackie’s hand. “I brought some stuff—um, your assistant? Miss Podrowski …”
The tiny smile left Jackie’s face, and she yanked her hand away from Anderson’s grip. “Yes,” she said.
Anderson shifted his weight uncertainly, and then nodded at the cardboard box. “I, uh … I brought you her effects. From her room.” He flicked the box with a finger. “Suitcase, purse, laptop. We been through it, and, uh, I was hoping you might take a look. See if you notice anything that we might miss?”
I said nothing, but I could not help thinking that what Anderson might miss would be a very long list. Jackie frowned and flicked her eyes toward me. “It might help,” I said.
She looked back to Anderson. “All right,” she said. “I’ll take a look.”
“Thank you, Miss Forrest,” Anderson said. “I know how busy you are, but I’d appreciate it if you could, you know. As soon as possible.”
“I’ll take a look,” Jackie repeated.
Anderson licked his lips and shifted his weight again. “And, uh,” he said. A funny little smile flicked on and off his face. “I wanted to give you my personal assurance. I’m gonna get this guy, and you got nothin’ to worry about.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Jackie said. She started to turn away from him, a clear dismissal, but Anderson touched her shoulder; she looked back at him, and he went on relentlessly.
“And, uh, you know,” he said. “If you’re feeling at all, you know. Like you’re worried? I want you to think of me like I’m a security blanket. Totally available, twenty-four/seven.” He held out a business card, nodded at her, and smiled as if he had just said something wonderful.
Jackie looked
at him with a very serious and thoughtful expression on her face, and gave him a head-to-toe scan before looking him in the eye. For a few long seconds she said nothing, and Anderson got very uncomfortable, shifted his weight from foot to foot, and actually began to blush. “A blanket,” Jackie said at last, deadpan. “Thank you.” She smiled wickedly. “But I already have a nice warm blanket,” she said, and she leaned over toward me and put a hand on the back of my neck, rubbing it lightly.
“I have to get to wardrobe,” she said. “Can you walk me over, Dexter?” And she gave me a smile warm enough to singe Anderson’s eyebrows.
“I’d be delighted,” I said. Jackie touched my cheek, then turned away. I glanced at Anderson. His face was mottled and his mouth hung open, and he watched Jackie saunter away until I moved to follow, forcing him to step back. “Excuse me,” I said. “I have to stay with Miss Forrest.” He looked at me and I smiled. “I’m her blanket.”
Anderson stared back at me with such pure hate that I wanted to stand there for a while and admire it, but after all, the work of a blanket is never done. “Bye now,” I said, and I followed Jackie out of the room.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I CAUGHT UP WITH JACKIE HALFWAY DOWN THE HALL, NOT AS easily as I should have, since she was practically sprinting away from Anderson. “Shit,” she said when I finally stepped up beside her, “I can’t deal with Kathy’s stuff, not so soon.” She shook her head. “And that odious dumbfuck Anderson,” she said.
“Odious dumbfuck,” I said, and I really was impressed with her colorful but accurate description. “You talk pretty.”
But for some reason, my sincere praise did not lighten her mood. She bit her lip, and then shook her head again. “I can’t— If I look at Kathy’s things right now, I’ll fall apart, and I can’t go in front of the cameras looking like I’ve been crying,” she said. She hesitated, then glanced at me. “Is it … Could there really be something important in her stuff?”
“With Anderson in charge?” I said. “The killer could be hiding in Kathy’s suitcase and he wouldn’t notice.”
Jackie stopped walking. We were at the junction of the hallway, where the main fork led back to the set. “Could I ask … Would you mind looking at her things, Dexter?”
“I didn’t know her at all,” I said.
Jackie sighed. “I know,” she said. “I just … it’s hard enough not to burst into tears every time I think of Kathy, and I …” She put a hand on my arm, and blinked back a few tears. “Please? Would you?”
The way Jackie looked at me with those wonderful violet eyes starting to fill up, I would have juggled flaming chain saws if it would make her happy. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll take a look.”
Jackie smiled. “Thank you,” she said. She took a deep breath, sniffled, and straightened up. “Right now I really do have to find Sylvia.” She leaned close to me and bumped her forehead against mine gently. “Thank you,” she said. “See you later.” And she strode away down the hall.
I watched her go for a moment. I had never before realized how much fun it can be just to watch somebody walk. Jackie was very good at it—not just because she didn’t fall down or walk into a wall, although that was true, too. There was just something about the way she put one foot in front of the other that made me think of how I felt waking up next to her naked body. It didn’t make any sense, but it was true. So I watched Jackie until she vanished through a doorway opposite the set.
I turned around and headed back toward Jackie’s dressing room. I didn’t see Anderson, which seemed odd. He certainly hadn’t gone past us. He might have gone out the door at the far end of this hall, but a sign on it clearly said that an alarm would sound if the door was opened, and I hadn’t heard any alarm. That seemed to mean that he was still in the dressing room, and that was very odd.
The door was ajar, and I peeked around it and into Jackie’s dressing room. Anderson was still inside. He was standing at the far end, at the rack that held Jackie’s costumes. He had the sleeve of one of her shirts held up to his nose, and he was apparently sniffing it. I didn’t know why he was doing that, but it made me want to break a chair on his face. Still, a little good humor is almost always a better way, so I stifled the urge and stepped into the room.
“Looking for a clue?” I said cheerfully, and he jerked around, practically flinging the shirtsleeve away from his face. “Because I’ve heard you totally don’t have one.”
“Don’t have— I was just … What do you mean?” he said.
“I said, you don’t have a clue,” I said. “It’s common knowledge.”
His forehead wrinkled, and I could probably have counted to five or six as it dawned on him that I had insulted him.
“Listen, ace,” he said. “I am running a homicide investigation here—”
“By sniffing Jackie’s clothing?” I said. “Is her armpit a suspect?”
Anderson turned bright red and stuttered at me, until it was very clear to both of us that nothing coherent was going to come out of his mouth. He looked around for a way to escape, and saw nothing except the toilet. So he cleared his throat, muttered something I couldn’t hear, and pushed past me, giving me one last glare from the doorway before he disappeared.
I closed the door and went to look at the box of Kathy’s stuff. I took the suitcase out and put it on the floor. I really doubted that there would be anything significant stuck in with her socks and underwear, and even if the urine stains had been washed out, I would rather not have to look at Kathy’s underwear. The purse was a more likely place to find something, so I dumped it out on the makeup table and poked through it. There was the usual clutter of coins, gum wrappers, receipts, coupons, a large clump of keys, a packet of tissues, lipstick, a small mirror, three pens, and a handful of paper clips. A wad of one-dollar bills, wrapped around a valet parking stub. Two tampons in a bright pink plastic case. A large packet of cinnamon-flavored sugarless gum. A wallet with several credit cards, license, a few business cards, forty-three dollars in cash, three paycheck stubs.
I frowned at the heap of useless junk. Something was missing. I am not an expert on what women carry in their purses, but a tiny nagging something tugged at the edge of my brain and whispered that this picture was missing a piece.
I looked in the box, lifting out the black nylon laptop case and unzipping it. There was nothing inside but the computer, with its ubiquitous half-eaten Apple logo on top. I poked through the Velcro-sealed pockets: a power cord, a flash drive in one pocket, and nothing else—and still the whiny little voice niggled and prodded at me that there should be something else. So I opened the suitcase and, as I had feared, found only underwear, socks, clothing, a baggy bathing suit, and a pair of sandals.
I snapped the lid shut and put the suitcase back on the floor, and as I straightened up I knew what was missing: her phone. Kathy’s all-important always-present phone, the one that had all her contacts and appointments. Her signature accessory, the one thing she was never without. The phone should have been here, in her purse or separate, and it was not.
Of course, it was possible that the phone was still in the lab, maybe because it was a blood-soaked mess, unfit to be released into the world. It was also possible that somebody—probably Vince, in my absence—was checking the call log, the calendar, and so on, for any hint of the killer’s identity.
And it was also possible that the killer had taken it. Not for a souvenir, which was easy to understand—for me, at least—but because he was in a rush to escape the scene and wanted to make sure that no memo or note on the phone could implicate him. No time to look, so just grab the thing and dash away into the night. That’s what I would have done: Get safely away, and discard the phone later, throwing it off a bridge, or into a handy canal.
It made sense, and I was sure I was right. If Kathy’s phone was not still in police custody, the killer had it.
Easy enough to check, of course. All I had to do was ask—not the officer in charge of the investigation, of course.
That was Anderson, and I was reasonably sure he didn’t want to say anything at all to me, unless it was, “You’re under arrest.” But one quick call to Vince ought to clear it up.
I pulled my own phone from my pocket and sat in the chair in front of the mirror. I heard six rings, and then Vince said, in his Charlie Chan voice, “Hung Fat Noodle Company.”
“I’d like some cat lo mein to go, please?”
“Depends, Grasshopper,” he said. “How far you want it to go?”
“Quick question,” I said. “Podrowski. The victim at the Grove Isle last night. Do you still have her phone?”
“Quick answer,” he said. “Nope.”
“Was it found at the scene?”
“That’s two questions,” Vince said. “But the same answer: nope.”
“Aha,” I said. “If you don’t think that’s too corny.”
“Why aha?” he said.
“Because Kathy—the victim—was never ever without her phone. So if you don’t know where it is—”
“Egads,” he said. “The killer took it.”
“Egads?” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “Because you got to say aha. I assume you told this to Anderson?”
“I assume that’s a joke?”
“Ha!” Vince said, with his terrible fake laugh—much worse than mine.
