It All Began in Monte Carlo (30 page)

Eddie smiled. “I'm hoping she didn't find it with me.”

Pru wasn't joking when she said, “I wouldn't bet on it. I don't trust her, and let me tell you there's not one woman among us that does.” She shrugged. “But anyway, it's over. And I don't want to spoil our lovely lunch talking about someone so unimportant.”

Impulsively, she reached for his hand. “Are you okay now? About Sunny, I mean.”

He nodded. “Sunny was lonely. I was the man who happened to be there.”

Tesoro raised her head and gave a little wail.

“Uh-uh,” Pru said. “I'm not experienced with dogs but I think that means she needs to go for a walk.” And getting up, she took Tesoro off around the cobbled square, while Eddie took care of the bill.

Back at the hotel, Eddie told her he was leaving for London that night. “I have to be in Glasgow tomorrow,” he said.

“Business?” Pru asked, hoping it wasn't a woman.

“It's always business. That's what's wrong with my life.” His voice had an edge of bitterness as he remembered his divorce and his lost family.

They said goodbye in the lobby. He was heading out to the terrace to make phone calls, and Pru was going to her room to call Allie and tell her everything that had happened. And also find out if she had heard from Sunny.

“Prudence, I made a new friend today,” Eddie said, taking her hand in both of his.

He bent to kiss it, and Pru felt that fiery blush again; he'd quite taken her breath away.

“Thank you for a lovely day,” she said. “In fact it was one of the nicest in my life.”

“Then may there be many more.”

His eyes met hers in a smile; there was an understanding between them.

“Friends,” Pru said, turning to walk away. “So call me, friend.”

“I will,” he promised.

There was a message waiting at the hotel when Mac arrived in Prague late the next day, much later than he had expected. His flight had been delayed. Worse. They had boarded then sat on the lifeless plane while outside important-looking things were being done to the engines by men in orange overalls. After two hours they were disembarked from the plane, nerves rattled, anxious to find another flight to Prague, only to find more long delays. He surely missed Ron and his Cessna.

Mac was lucky to get one of the last seats on a flight leaving five hours later, with the result that he ended up late in the chilly airport, thanking God he had a carry-on and did not have to wait like the others, whose bags anyway were probably still on the original flight. There were definite benefits to traveling light, though try to tell Sunny that when she was packing and he would come across stubborn resistance.

“I have to have these shoes,” she would say, clutching them to her chest, dark eyes flashing. “You must understand Mac, a woman
needs
her shoes.”

“But
six
pairs?” he remembered complaining when they were off to the Riviera on vacation. He'd thought it would be a shorts-and-flip-flops deal, which it was, except when Sunny felt the need to get dressed up. And she looked so great when she did, how could
he grumble about having to wait for the bags to come down onto the carousel while the rest of the world just got on with living.

Where the hell
was
Sunny? Allie wasn't telling, and nor was Ron, although he guessed both were in on the secret.

“I'll tell you when I get back,” Sunny had said. Now, sitting in an overheated taxi on his way to an unknown Prague hotel, Mac knew he should have insisted she tell him. Uneasiness accompanied him all the way. And then there was the message from Ron.

It was on the room phone; Ron had not been able to reach him on his cell. “Fell off the fuckin' horse. My fault. Broken leg,” he said.

Mac checked the time. Nine-thirty at night. Same as in France. He checked his room. It was barely okay; kitschy, chintzy, flowery slipcovers, dark green carpet and a musty smell. A bit like grandmama's house in a bad fairy story. He peeked into the bathroom; the shower looked decent though; efficient.

He took off his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed, cell phone in hand. Ron answered immediately.

“I could have been in Australia,” Mac said wearily. “The time it took to get to Prague.”

“Australia's sunnier,” Ron said. “Anyhow, I'm
hors de combat,
as they say.”

“Who's ‘they'?” Mac asked and they both laughed.

“I'm sorry, my friend,” Mac said, seriously. “Take care of yourself, or I'm sure Allie will anyhow. Meanwhile, I'm gonna get myself a sandwich, I seem to remember I haven't eaten all day. And while I think of it a drink wouldn't be a bad idea. I wonder if there's a bar in this hotel.”

He glanced again round the room with its granny furnishings. “Jesus, if there is I'll bet it has women in dirndls and guys in lederhosen playing accordions and singing in a language I don't know, and what's more right now, I don't want to know.”

“The joys of foreign travel,” Ron said. “Call me tomorrow, tell me about the gypsy.”

“Will do,” Mac said.

He wasn't far wrong about the accordions; just no lederhosen. Wrong country he supposed. But the beer was cold and the bratwurst sandwich hot and the waitress's smile friendly.

In less than an hour, he had eaten, showered and was fast asleep in granny's pink-peony-flowered bed.

 

The Czech Republic in winter was not like California, or even Monte Carlo, where gentle winds softened the air and sunshine gilded the ornate pastel buildings, where pretty women swung their hips feeling sexy in little skirts and cute boots. Prague had a harder wintry edge; gray skies, a chill that crusted on the skin, making Mac shiver. It was a beautiful city but Mac had no eyes for it right now. He was on his way to an address in New Town, to the apartment of a gypsy named Valeria Vinskaya. He would bet his last buck that was not her real name, but Valeria was an entertainer, a gypsy dancer, and he guessed a melodious name went along with the act.

She claimed to be an “international artiste,” the Inspector had told him, which simply meant she went wherever she chose and did whatever she wanted, crime being her operative word. So far her crimes had been on the smaller level: street theft, confidence trickster in a minor way; conning men into parting with their wallets while they were asleep. Her biggest deals, though, were auto thefts, where the gypsy team whisked stolen vehicles into warehouses, stripped them of their parts, then shipped those parts on to be resold in other countries.

Valeria made a living, but now suddenly she seemed to have hit the jackpot. And like all small-time thieves, the money burned a hole in her pocket. She'd had to spend it, flash it around: new clothes, a fur coat, a boyfriend. Only temporary of course, but that was all Valeria knew.

The apartment was on an anonymous street of gray cement buildings, flat-fronted, small windows, not even a shutter to add a
hint of charm. An iron grill covered the entrance. Mac knew Valeria's apartment was on the first floor. He had not called ahead to make an appointment; in his experience surprise was his greatest asset. Of course, whether she would open the door to him was another matter, but he was betting on the Inspector's name to get him in.

He pressed the buzzer, huddling in his long black overcoat, waiting. To his surprise a response came immediately.

He did not understand what she said in Czech, but anyhow he announced himself, said he knew she spoke English and that he needed to see her.

“Why?”

The voice was deep, dark. Exactly, Mac thought with a smile, the way a gypsy woman's was supposed to sound in movies. He told her he was a friend of the Inspector's. There was a long silence.

Then again, “Why?”

“I would be much more comfortable talking to you inside,” he said, shivering. “It's cold as hell out here.”

“And I always thought hell was supposed to be hot.” He heard her laugh, then she said, “I can see you, you know. I'm looking at you as we speak.”

Mac looked up, saw a dark shape at the window, then the iron security gate swung open.

He was in a narrow lobby with walls painted institutional green. A chandelier glimmered in the interior gloom, as out of place as a bunch of stolen diamonds. There was the sound of a door opening and he turned to look. He had expected a dark Romany woman, all long black hair, big gold earrings and a swirl of many-colored skirts. What he was looking at was a young woman, maybe in her twenties, petite, with short black hair. She was looking back at him through a thick dark fringe that fell into eyes that were a strange light color. Gray, he thought. And she wore jeans and a heavy gray sweater.

“Mac Reilly,” he said, walking toward her, hand outstretched. She did not take it.

“I know,” she said, stepping back so he could come in.

He was in an all-purpose room; fuchsia-pink walls, a small kitchenette to one side, a pink plastic curtain separating a shower from the black futon in the corner; messy with rumpled sheets. A tiny TV sat on the shelf opposite. There were no books. A small table stood under the window from where she had watched him. It was the only window in the studio apartment. A closed door hid what Mac guessed was a toilet, and a clothes rack ran the length of one wall, crammed with spangled red and black skirts, the swirling gypsy ones he had expected, as well as ordinary everyday stuff. A fur coat, mink he supposed, was on a hanger at the end of the rack. It looked new and it also looked expensive.

“Good coat,” he said appreciatively.

She shrugged. “Get on with why you're here.”

“Mind if I take off
my
coat?” Mac glanced round, taking his time. He did not want to miss anything.

“Oh, too bad! I'm forgetting my manners. Mr. Reilly, please allow me to take your coat. May I offer you a drink? Slivovitz is good on a cold day like this. Warms those places that need to be kept warm, or so I've heard.”

Her light gray eyes mocked him as he laid his coat over the back of one of the two chairs at the round table which was covered in a long fringed pink cloth. Suddenly from beneath, emerged a small cat. Silver-gray, spotted darker at the sides, charcoal rings around its tail.

“A beauty,” Mac said, putting out a hand to it. The cat hissed and struck out at him.

“She drew blood,” Valeria said, smiling. “Just the way a woman should.”

There were two club chairs in front of a sixties oval glass coffee table. The chairs were black, which was a relief from all the pink.
Mac took a tissue from his pocket and mopped the blood from the cat scratch. He sat in one of the chairs, then carrying two small glasses, Valeria came and sat next to him. She gave him a lengthy look, taking him in boldly, head to toe.

“Well?” Mac asked.

She grinned and suddenly looked very young and pretty. He could see her collarbones sticking out under the gray sweater and her face was thin, pale.

“I like what I see,” she said. “Here's to us, Mac Relly.”

“Reilly.”

She shrugged. “Mac is better.” She was flirting with him.

He said, “Valeria, you know I am not with the police.”

“I know who you are. We get your show here.”

“Then you also know why I'm here.”

“I admit to nothing.” Her small face folded into a sulk and her eyes hardened.

“I'm not asking you to admit to anything. All I want from you is some information. Not enough to put you in danger, just enough to help find a killer who had no emotion about killing. Someone who kills for the bitter thrill of it, not for financial gain, or jealousy.”

“Not a crime of passion then,” she said, thoughtfully, tucking her legs under her in the chair and taking a sip of the Slivovitz, or whatever the colorless liquid was in her glass. She looked at him over the rim, all big gray eyes and sharp cheekbones. “Too bad. Crimes of passion are the only ones to interest me.”

“And what about love. Let's talk about that, Valeria.”

“Are you in love then?” Her eyes were big now, interested.

“That's a very personal question.” Mac was too smart to answer or take a sip of the Slivovitz.

“And I ask it for a very personal reason.”

He knew he shouldn't but he asked anyway. “And what is that?”

“Because I find you very attractive, Mr. Relly.”

“
Reilly.
And the name is Mac.”

“Like macaroni and cheese.”

“Mackenzie, actually.”

“You're not drinking, Mackenzie. Think I've poisoned the wine?” She laughed out loud now as he set the glass down on the coffee table.

“I wouldn't put it past you.”

She nodded. “Quite right. Nor would I. But I am no cold-blooded killer, Mackenzie. That's not my style. I'm just a cheap dancer who picks up a living wherever she can. I'm a gypsy, a Romany, despite the way I look, and that makes it easier for me to get jobs, dancing, in Poland, Hungary, Germany . . . You name any small club in any small town and I've danced in it.”

“So you are not a criminal.”

She took a sip and eyed him again. “What do
you
think?”

Mac laughed. “I think you are charming, I think you are a flirt and I think you know exactly what you are doing, Miss Valeria Vinskaya. And no, I do not think you are a killer. But before you get carried away on the Slivovitz, let me tell you a little story, about a jewel robbery. About a murder.”

She was quiet while he told her, curled up in her chair like a small gray mouse while he talked about the fur-coated killer. Only her eyes were alive, staring into space. At least Mac thought she was, but following her gaze he saw she was looking at the fur coat.

“Pretty coat,” he said into the silence.

“It used to be,” she said, and getting up she took it off the hanger and slipped it on. She twirled in front of him. It was way too big, and came all the way down over her feet.