The Granite Moth (5 page)

“Ms. Burstyn asked me to look into the fire,” I said, not wanting to mention the deaths, yet. I didn't need a police report to tell me that the explosion hadn't been an accident. I'd done some research, and those floats are designed to keep combustible materials away from all generators. And the wiring must meet strict standards, or the float's banned. No exceptions. If a makeshift explosive was on board, it must have been left after the event started.

“I told her last week that she should have hired you,” Dolly said.

“She told you about the threat?”

Dolly put down his tea cup, careful not to tear the wraps on his hands. His forehead was bandaged, as well, and he didn't look at his reflection when he stepped toward the vanity. I was glad that his wounds seemed to be limited to burns, although I knew they must ache. He pulled out a decorative wooden box from the top drawer. I wasn't holding my breath for love letters, but when he opened the lid, several red envelopes fell out.

“Threats plural. We all got them. These aren't all wishes for imminent demise. A few from fans, as well.” He picked
up the smallest envelope and handed it to me. Inside was the same wedding stock paper that Big Mamma's threat had featured, and the invitation was basically the same. “You know what's funny,” Dolly continued. “The memorial really will be at St. Mark's Church. It's where all the artists are dying to go.”

CHAPTER FIVE

D
olly attempted a hand flourish, but the gauze made the gesture look painful rather than funny. I brought my attention back to the square paper, rubbing my fingers along the embossed words.

“I don't know much about printing, but this seems nice. It could be something for me to check out.”

“For
us
to check out.”

I considered protesting but realized that it was pointless. Dolly had lost his friends and wouldn't be dissuaded. Plus, I could keep an eye on him if he stuck close to me. Not quite a twenty-four-hour bodyguard, but a step in the right direction. He was still a target. And I could use his help, starting with background information about the victims. As a three-year headliner for the club, he must have known the other performers well. After a long enough pause for him to think that I was resigned rather than eager, I pulled a legal pad out, uncapped a pen, and faced my friend.

“Let's start with the deceased. Roberto Giabella?”

The direct approach worked well, and Dolly filled me in on Bobbie, starting with his audition and ending with his
seventeen-year-old boyfriend Martin. There wasn't much to tell, since Bobbie had been working at The Pink Parrot for less than eight months. Two as a waiter, five and change as a performer. A rapid rise, according to Dolly. The other victim, Taylor Soto, wasn't even on the float when it blew up. He and some other members of the waitstaff were walking beside, and he was hit in the head by a support beam. Knocked instantly unconscious, the doctors had said, if that was any comfort to the family. Even though Taylor wasn't listed on the funeral invite, Dolly told me what he knew anyway. Busboy turned bartender with hopes to be in the show.

I asked about the performers who had been threatened specifically, and Dolly settled into his role as informant, zeroing in on what secrets might be most relevant. In Juniper Summer's case, he went by Jake Summer while visiting his family and girlfriend in Utah. Yep, girlfriend as in a twenty-year-old matriculated at Salt Lake Community College waiting until her wedding night for sex with her high school sweetheart.

“That's not likely to end well,” I said when Dolly stood up to grab some photographs from his mirror. He pointed out Juniper, whose pale complexion was almost ghoulish in his stage makeup.

“You're telling me, but Juniper's not even the biggest Pandora's box. We've got a senator's son and an honest-to-Cher drug dealer. You didn't hear either of those from me.”

I jotted down “Sen. son” next to Carlton Casborough, and “drugs” next to Herman White who sold, you guessed it, coke. In small quantities as far as Dolly knew. A little side income, not a lot of risk, though I'd seen enough coke dealers slide from small-time to shit-deep without noticing. Ravi Sethi and Aaron Kline weren't nearly as scandalous. Ravi was married to his long-time partner and owned a 5% stake in The Pink Parrot, his ten-year career anniversary present from Big Mamma. He didn't
perform as much anymore, preferring his new management role to the spotlight. And Aaron was everyone's favorite, guests and coworkers alike. The one you called in an emergency if you needed your dog walked. Aside from sexual orientation, the men didn't have much in common, and I was pretty sure we were looking at a hate crime. There was always a possibility that the club itself was the target, and I wrote that in my margins as well.

“I need to talk to Ms. Burstyn, too. Can you write down anything else you think of?”

I handed over my legal pad and squeezed Dolly's shoulder before heading toward the bar, where I figured Big Mamma would be waiting for me by now. She didn't disappoint. Dressed in a three-piece pin-striped suit, she looked ready for a courtroom, and I couldn't blame her. I knew from experience that she'd be lucky if her only visitors today were from the police department and insurance agency. She was as likely to hear from Bobbie's family lawyers, funeral home directors, and newspaper reporters.

“The service is tomorrow,” she said without looking up from the files she had spread on a cocktail table. “You'll come?”

“I'll be there. Kind of ballsy to have it at St. Mark's, no?”

Big Mamma chortled. “Balls or ovaries—that's all I've ever had, Miss Stone. You, too, if I'm not wrong about you.”

I wanted to argue, not for my sake but hers. My assets were few and far between, and I'd long thought of this woman as one of the top entrepreneurs in New York City. Eva Magrelli was a shadow of a shadow in comparison. I bit my tongue before I asked my host about The Skyview, wanting the dirt but knowing it wasn't appropriate to get off topic. Day 1, and I was already tempted to blur the lines between my two cases. Not a promising start. I glanced at the files on the table and saw dozens of resumes and headshots.

“
Looking for replacements?” I asked.

“These are for you. All the ones we didn't hire.”

I could see where Big Mamma might think of these men as suspects, but I didn't buy it. Not getting a gig is no reason to kill people, and I said as much.

“Think of it this way, Miss Stone. We're the University Club for drag queens. This isn't a gig, it's a family and a damn well-connected one at that. Salary and benefits? Icing. Some people look around and see nothing but a seedy club, but these are A-list performers.”

Dolly, her Aist of A-listers, was perched in the doorway watching us. I guess he hadn't thought of anything worth adding to our notes.

“I can think of better uses of your time, Darío, than scowling,” Big Mamma said. She still hadn't looked up from her files, but I was sure she knew what expression to expect from using Dolly's legal name. If I avoided Kathleen Stone as much as possible, Dolly avoided Darío Rodriquez like it was his job. I suppose in a way it was. No one came to see Mr. Rodriquez on Saturday nights.

“Any rivals that I should know about?” I said, partly to change the subject.

“There are a few club owners downtown who'd like to compete with my lineup. They're nowhere near this echelon, but I'll give you the names. And you'll take these.”

She collected the photographs and papers, shoving everything into a folder as the house phone rang. She pulled it over to her table and checked the caller I.D. before answering in a stern voice: “About time I heard from you.” She waved her hand, signaling to both Dolly and me that we were dismissed.

Kennedy S. Vanders wasn't the easiest woman to inhabit. For starters, I didn't know what the “S” stood for. Perhaps a maiden name: Starkweather or Samsonite. I mouthed “Starkweather” into my bathroom mirror then watched my face morph into someone more worldly. My jaw tightened, and I penciled in darker eyebrows until they arched into perpetual disdain. I tucked the silky red strands of my wig behind my ears in order to insert large cubic zirconium studs. In the The Skyview's sure-to-be flattering light, no one would know the difference between real and fake. A lady could hope.

I had spent the afternoon running Google searches and background checks on the thirty-three Pink Parrot rejects, but aside from a few slaps on the wrist, the men were clean. And mostly impressive: a Rhodes Scholar, an award-winning journalist, a painter rumored to be in the Whitney Museum's next Biennial exhibition. While I was sure they were disappointed by not being hired at Manhattan's most exclusive drag club, I was equally certain that they would find work elsewhere. Revenge didn't strike me as the right motive. Not this time. Not for this brand of castoffs.

When I wrapped up my day's work on the Pink Parrot case, I had just enough time to prepare for a glamorous albeit perilous night out. Ellis's brother Lars Dekker had been more than game to help an industrious P.I., even if he probably didn't remember meeting me. The weekend that I'd spent at his family's Long Island estate was a speck in my rearview, as well. His eagerness confirmed my long-held suspicion that it's boring being rich. At least that's what I always told myself to get through the morning commutes.

On the cab ride to midtown, I considered what I knew about my alter ego Kennedy. In a previous incarnation, she had been the wife of a wealthy businessman, but now I thought she was probably divorced, maybe looking for Victim #2.
I smiled when I thought of that detail, and I had to admit that I liked this character. Over the years, that had become a pattern—identifying with my personas more than myself. On the surface, Kennedy Starkweather Vanders and I had nothing in common, but there was always something to grab. A perverted sense of humor. A fondness for Monopoly. In this instance, her red hair was supplied by my favorite wig. It had once been brutally mussed by a NYPD evidence bag, but after ministrations from hairpiece guru Vondya Vasiliev, it was a survivor. Like me. See? There's always a connection.

That night, my doppelganger grabbed the attention of my cab driver, and he didn't try to hide his curiosity. “What's a woman like you doing in the Heights?” was his opening gambit.

I kept my gaze on the Hudson River, admired the twinkling lights off the George Washington Bridge, and wished the driver would focus more on the traffic. Instead, he weaved with one hand on the wheel, both eyes on my face in the mirror.

“My sister,” I responded curtly, trying to check his enthusiasm. It wasn't my lucky night—unfortunate, since I hoped to play a little poker. A hastily scrawled note on The Skyview brochure among Ellis's papers hinted at a secret (until you asked the right questions) table. Illegal, yes, and also likely where I'd find Magrelli's high-rolling associates, the ones I believed would lead to the ringleader himself.

“No shit,” the driver replied. “My sister lives up there, too. You and me, we could be related.”

In the backseat window I could see Kennedy's wry expression, then an undercurrent of nerves that I didn't want to be visible. I'm good at blending, but maybe this was too much of a stretch. I thought I knew how the monied acted, but maybe in private, there was a whole other language to master. I pulled my attention to the driver. There was no need to be haughty. Yet.

“We could be,” I agreed. “
Where are you from?”

In most cases, it's rude to assume that people are from anywhere but New York City—everyone wants to be a genuine New Yorker—but many are. It's a transplant city, my parents the exception rather than the rule. And the driver, Eliasz Brzezicki, according to the certification displayed on the back of the driver's seat, didn't seem to mind.

“Poland, you know where that is?”

“Yeah, I know.”

He pointed to a photograph on his dash that showed two little girls with wide, oval eyes.

“My girls, they're from here. Born in Queens. They're not Polish.”

I knew what he meant, though I hoped they appreciated their heritage. I like to call myself a mutt, but I knew my parents' histories, the unexpected combinations that produced a daughter indistinguishable in a crowd.

“They're pretty,” I said. “What grades are they in?”

“First and third. Best of their classes, too.”

“I bet.”

The driver laid on the horn as a black SUV tried to pass on the right. He shifted toward that lane, and the other driver slammed on the brakes. I braced myself against the door, but nothing happened.

“Math. They like math.”

I removed my hands from the door handle. “Good for them.”

When we got off Riverside Drive, there was more traffic and more honking, but we made our way past the theater district and down the street I needed. Normally, I would never cough up the cash for a taxi, but I didn't want anyone to see me coming up from the subway. Maybe I was being crazy, but these were high stakes. I wasn't sure what all I would lose if I lost. My stomach flipped at that thought, and
I rummaged around in my purse so that the shaking in my hands wouldn't show.