It All Began in Monte Carlo (37 page)

“Well, she found it.” Eddie's voice had a bitter ring.

“I told Eddie she was a C-word,” Pru said primly, making them laugh.

Ron asked the waiter to bring a magnum of champagne. He checked his watch. “After all it is New Year's Eve,” he said. “Only a couple of hours to go.”

Pru glanced meaningfully at Allie. “It's already the New Year in some places we know. Does that count?”

“I'm worried to death,” Allie whispered back. “What are we to do?”

“Let's tell Mac,” Pru said. “Oh, Allie,
please
let's tell him.”

“So, all business is over between you two?” Ron asked Eddie. “Is it okay to drink a celebratory glass?”

Mac nodded at Eddie. “Drink,” he said. “It will be okay. She—and whoever she's working with—will be taken care of. And by the way administering drugs is a federal offense. As is blackmail. Trust me.”

The champagne was poured, platters of hors d'ouevres, Czech-style, appeared: smoked beef, tiny pork chops with sauerkraut, minuscule sausages, cheese on little skewers, nuts and coconut-spangled dates and sweet rose-colored crisp ladyfingers, all the way from Rheims, where the champagne came from.

They toasted, then Mac had had enough of the talking and the subject. “Okay. Where is Sunny?”

In the silence that followed, his phone rang. Groaning, he answered. “Yes, Inspector?”

“The gypsy,” the Inspector said. “I sent the local police to check her out. They found her sitting in a chair with a cat curled up on her lap, and a neat bullet hole in her forehead. Very neat, very small. Except at the back where her head was blown away.”

“Tell me it was the Black Rose,” Mac said. “The PM 9.”

“Made in Worcester, Massachusetts. From the crime photos on the computer, I'm betting on it.”

“And so am I. And Inspector, I think you should be sending those local cops to question Sharon Barnes of the Barnes Model Agency. I'll bet my good New Year it's her. And try Maha Mondragon. They worked together.”

He closed his phone, stared down at it, as if hypnotized. His heart ached for the little gray waif, who at the end had only her cat for company in death. It wasn't grief he felt; he hadn't known her well enough or long enough for his heart to stop in that direction. It was simply pain for a lost soul.

“What's wrong?” Allie asked, reaching out her hand to him, concerned. “Is it Sunny?”

Mac looked sadly at her. “Not this time.” They listened in silence as he told them the gypsy's story.

Then Allie said, “You know of course, it's not suicide. Just from what you've told us, I'm sure of that. She wasn't suicidal when you met her, and besides it's guys who put bullets in their heads, shoot their faces off. Women put on their mascara and take pills; after all they never know who'll be looking at them after they're dead.”

“Vanity,” Pru said, stunned.

Allie shrugged. “I'm not demeaning the act of death,” she said. “Just explaining that this kind of woman would not shoot herself in the head.”

“She didn't. There was no gun. Just a body.”

“Ooh,” Pru said, horrified.

“And what's more,” Mac said, stroking Tesoro as though it would bring Sunny closer. “I believe I know who did it. And why.”

Ron said, “Are you gonna tell us?”

Mac shook his head. “Not yet. I need proof, a witness, hard evidence. So far, it's only a theory. And so far I don't have all the story.”

New Year's celebrations continued around them.

Mac said, “So, don't you think it's time you all told me where Sunny is?”

Allie and Pru looked at each other. “Yes,” they said, together. “She's in Mumbai.”

Kitty Ratte paced the floor of her small apartment in her cut-price Louboutins, clacking back and forth on the wood, catching a heel in the rug and almost tumbling onto the sofa. The fatal sofa where Eddie had gotten seduced. She almost wished it had been real; that man had a wonderful body and was well-endowed enough to at least give a woman some sort of a game, though Kitty would have had to put the handcuffs on him, have him in her power for even a glimmer of excitement to creep through her own body. And then she would have had to use the vibrator, which anyway was failing in its claims, always failing to give her the high she sought and would never find.

Kitty had always used sex as a way to control and manipulate men, and by only ever faking her excitement, she had always retained that control. At the swingers' clubs, as well as the sexual encounters, in hotels, and the pickups for money, men thought they were giving her a really good time, what with all her moaning and yelping and the oooh-you're-so-wonderfuls, I've never come like this before . . . Poor fools. Sometimes, though, Kitty wanted it. She
really
wanted that elusive high, the thrill that would never be hers, no matter how many men took her body at the clubs, no matter how many masked men watched them while getting their thrills, Kitty's
thrill was only vicarious, never real. She remembered the psychiatrist telling her she was a nymphomaniac, explaining the symptoms. Now she understood, and knew it was true.

Anyhow where was that bastard Johanssen? She had given him the blackmail note and the photos yesterday; she'd expected him to be filled with fear, back on the phone, setting up a meeting. Especially after she had called and let him know how sexually attractive and exciting she thought he was, and how he could never betray her. She knew a man like Eddie Johanssen would never allow his family to be put in jeopardy; he would pay up. She was certain of it. Nevertheless, she was nervous, pacing, eyeing the phone, waiting for it to ring.

Stumbling over the rug again, she banged her chin on the edge of the iron coffee table, stepped back, tripped, caught her shoe heel. Her ankle twisted and the heel snapped. It dangled by a thread of red leather.

Oh shit shit, shit!
These were her “good” shoes. Like her “good” bag, they gave her entrée into real society. Wearing them, she could pretend she had a maid at home, taking care of a grand house where she entertained like a rich woman. Wearing a pair of seven-hundred-dollar Louboutins, bought for less than half that, had given her class.

Bristling with anger, Kitty grabbed the phone, called the hotel and asked to be put through to Mr. Johanssen. She was told he was not there, but yes, he was expected back, they did not know when.

Lying back on the rug, she threw the ruined shoe viciously at the ceiling. Ooh fuck! It hit the track light and thin shards of glass shattered down onto the table.
Shit
,
shit
,
shit!
She lay on the rug, her swollen ankle propped on the sofa, tears of anger streaming down her face. After a while, she got up and limped over to the kitchen where her laptop sat beneath the bank of cabinets. She summoned up Jimmy on Skype and sat there, red hair orange in the light, fringe stuck to her prominent forehead, buckteeth exposed in a snarl, ugly in her anger.

The picture came up. A woman was looking at her. “I know you,” the woman said.

It was Jimmy's wife. “Listen, bitch,” the woman was saying, glaring at her on the screen.

Kitty did not know what to do and by the time she realized
what
she must do, it was too late.

The woman was small, blond hair in a careful bob, beige twin-set buttoned at the neck. She even wore a string of pearls. Kitty noticed her teeth, small, white, even. No twin bad front-tooth veneers to haunt her in her mirror. The “wife,” neat, perfect. And angry.

“Listen, bitch,” the wife said again, staring deeply at her from the screen. “I've had it with this cheap bastard. You know what, don't bother to call him on Skype anymore because I'm cutting it off. And you know what else. I'm cutting
him
off too. I've thrown him out. He's all yours. And you know what he comes to you with? Nothing. He's out of here with zero in his bank account; no credit cards; no cash; no car. Did you really think I was just sitting around here letting him get away with spending my money on trips to France, on sex games and porn and cheap whores like yourself? Forget it. I'm much too smart for that. I have it all arranged legally. He has nothing, and now, he's all yours. You are welcome to him.”

Kitty stared soundlessly at her, for once lost for words, lost for control . . . her life was spiraling downward . . . Jimmy had no money, nothing . . . now he offered her zero, except as her partner in the blackmail . . .

“Let me add something here,” the wife's voice had a triumphant tone. “Looking at you, I'm telling you you're too old for this game. You are too old, too cheap-looking, too tired. What you are in is a young woman's game and you are way, way beyond it. Seduction is more than just opening your legs. Even we suburban housewives understand that.”

Outraged, Kitty shut down the computer. How
dare
she? How dare that
bitch
talk to her like that? Where the fuck was
Jimmy
? Why hadn't he called? E-mailed? Skyped?

Her ankle was throbbing. Now it was swollen to twice its normal size, as fat as her calf, almost as fat as her fat thighs.

She got up, opened the cabinet, took a bottle of pills from the selection she kept there. Oxycontin. Shaking out three, she swallowed them without water. She could have powdered them, gotten a bigger hit, but she was in pain.

This blackmail had to work. She would not let Johanssen get away from her . . . she would accuse him of rape . . . she would destroy him . . .

Tears trickled down Kitty's face as she hauled herself back to the sofa, where she sat, staring into space, wondering what to do, until her eyes rolled up and her head fell back onto the cushions, and oblivion took over.

It was very late; the New Year had already taken over from the old; the jollifications and firecrackers had subsided and no bells were ringing as Rahm Singh walked down the driveway to the gatehouse. The keeper was curled up on the floor, sleeping. Singh pressed the button to open the gates. The keeper woke, jumped to his feet and was struck down by a quick blow to the head. He gave a single cry, high pitched, like a seabird, then fell back, dead.

Singh pressed the button to open the tall iron gates, and the waiting car glided silently to the house. He followed on foot.

 

Sunny didn't know what it was that woke her. She lay on her back, still as the statue of Mahalakshmi who guarded the pool and who brought prosperity and wealth to this house. The lamp she had left on in a corner near the tall double doors leading into the vast room cast a comforting light, and a perfumed candle flickered in the slight breeze coming from the French doors that had been left slightly open. Sunny saw all this mistily, through sleep-glazed eyes, behind the gauze of looped muslin curtains that swirled around the high bed. The newly cold predawn air raised goose bumps on her arms. Or was that fear?

But why should she be afraid? She was safe, here at Maha's house. She had carried the jewels halfway across the world and tomorrow—no, it must be already today—she would complete her mission, then the following day she would be winging her way back to France, back to Mac . . .

A sound came from outside . . . a footfall, then a cry . . . It must be a bird calling? But her watch said three
A.M.
It was still dark. Surely even Indian birds slept in their nests and trees until dawn had them on the wing.
Then what was it?

Real fear crept up Sunny's spine this time; freezing her in place. She knew no one here, had met only Rahm Singh and the silent maids, the gatekeeper who had waved the car in, the man who had served her supper. She was alone. Again. This time in India.

Numb, she strained her ears for any new sound. Nothing. Relieved, she exhaled. She had been listening so hard she had forgotten to breathe. Now the sound of her own gasp seemed to echo through the silence.

Mac flew into her thoughts, in her head, the image of him there, with her. He would be saying
come on, Sunny, baby, you're a strong woman, think about this, think what to do
.
Probably it's nothing, and all you have to do is get out of bed and take a look around . . .

That's what Mac would say, and that's what Mac would do. It was no use her lying in bed, waiting for something to happen. If anything was wrong then she'd better be prepared.

Willing away the fear that had frozen her, Sunny told herself it was only because she was alone and in a strange house, in a foreign country. Of course everything was all right.

She sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, bundled the muslin curtains to one side and stood for a few seconds on the small wooden steps.

She hurried to the open windows. She had on only a T-shirt and the jersey yoga pants she wore when traveling because they were lightweight and easy, and besides she hadn't wanted to be naked,
alone in that big bed, in this strange house, in this strange country. She held back the sweeping heavy fuchsia silk curtains, covering herself with them as she peered out.

Stop it,
she told herself,
stop this nonsense, Mac would want you to stop it.
Nevertheless, finally emerging onto the shadowy terrace she wished Tesoro was with her. The little dog could sniff out an intruder at fifty paces; be alert to any new sound, any thrill of danger.

Shadows swooped around the perimeter of the terrace and the little stream burbled over its rocks. Sunny permitted herself a little smile. You see, she told herself, relieved; that's all you heard, the water trickling over the rocks.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the jacarandas, sending clouds scudding over the half-moonlit black sky, bringing with it the marshy scent of the nearby sea, and causing the necklace of lights around Malabar Point and the Marine Drive to twinkle.