Codes of Betrayal (18 page)

“Damn. I knew it. I remember. You always were slightly knock-kneed as a kid. Looka this, little Laura knock-knees.”

“Big Nicky big mouth.”

She wasn’t perfect. Almost, but not quite.

The second time was a little frantic; each felt lost, as though the other was in control. They devoured each other, consumed each other. Became each other for a brief and shattering time. It almost seemed an act of desperation. For both of them.

Later, over hot chocolate, Laura seemed to know his thoughts. “There are so many ways, Nick. That last time was scary; the next time, it’ll be sweet.”

And it was.

P
ROFESSOR THOMAS CARUSO WAS
a heavyset man with thick graying hair and a deep shadow over his jaw even just after he shaved. He peered over the tops of his half-glasses, noted the night class was about three-quarters filled. The night students were older; most of them were cops. Originally, John Jay had been part of the Police Academy. Ninety-something percent of the students were cops, firemen, or correction officers. For more than thirty years now it was an independent college, part of the City University system. Most of the day students were kids, some cop wannabes. His day class was repeated at night, twice a week. A throwback to when the students were mostly guys working around-the-clock shifts, so that they could eventually get degrees. John Jay College of Criminal Justice had, through the years, sent graduates on to Ivy League master’s programs and law schools; it now offered a doctorate degree. Caruso liked the night students better. They had been there, done that. Some were old enough to remember when the
Miranda
warnings were unheard of; search and seizure was carried out without a thought. His course, Constitutional Rights and Liberties, had been a hard sell years ago. Today, no one argued at having to take it—just argued their chosen side of the cases he threw at them.

The previous week’s assignment had been an open-book, at-home exam. Each student was to assume the role of a Supreme Court Justice and issue a decision on a given case, citing precedents or establishing new guidelines.

“I’m basically just going to collect your blue books and give you a new reading assignment for next time. Make a short night of it. Any objections?”

A polite smile or two. They jotted down the reading information; a couple of students, bleary-eyed narcotics men who must have pulled a thirty-six-hour shift, were relieved to be able to return to their precinct and catch a few hours of dead sleep before they were due in court in the morning.

Professor Caruso slid Nick O’Hara’s booklet into his briefcase without comment. He had felt the small hard disk containing the data Nick had been collecting. He nodded to Nick, spoke to a few others, and left.

Caruso and his people, whoever the hell they were, could do whatever they needed to do with the records from the Ventura Real Estate agency. Nick was ready for an early night.

Laura called him less than thirty minutes after he returned to his apartment.

“Guess who’s downstairs? Got anything to eat or what?”

Nick thought about the steaks and chops in the freezer. “Nothing you’d eat, but there’s a great little Italian restaurant coupla blocks away. You can eat pasta and sun-dried tomatoes. I understand the tomatoes are never slaughtered; they die of old age.”

They went to the restaurant, but immediately decided to take the food back to his apartment. They could heat it up in the micro, later.

It had been years—if ever—since Nick had experienced such a continuously remarkable sex life. Instead of being sated, their lust fed on lust until Nick felt his body was about to disintegrate. Instead, slowly, steadily, he was renewed to meet her every incredible, growing need.

It was like a game; they were two very competitive players. Neither would give an inch. Yet, time after time, why did he feel that Laura dominated and possessed him so totally?

“I’ll tell you a secret, Nick. Do you know the tango?”

“The tango? Well, sure. But I don’t dance it. Why?”

“Well. Sex is like the tango. The man, very macho, in charge, dominant, deciding in a series of split seconds what move he will make, assured she will follow his lead immediately. He is not the one setting the pace; determining exactly what will happen next.
She
is. Always. At all times. Do you understand why?”

“No, but you’re gonna tell me.”

She raised herself, elbow on the bed, her face in her hand.

“Because she
permits
him. She allows him—to make the moves, the timing, the pace. She seems to follow him, but without her total concentration, the dance would be a farce. Don’t you see? It is the woman who rules the dance.”

“Well, I’m about to guide you toward the micro and put you in a position to hit some buttons, so that in about twenty seconds we can eat. Even though I
know
I’m only doing this—making you get the food—because you’re allowing me. See how fast I learn?”

She pulled his discarded shirt on, shrugged the sleeves, buttoned some buttons. “Okay. I’ll pretend this was your idea. Now, as for you, Mr. Bensonhurst. You set that table for two or we’ll have to eat standing up. Oh, and slice the bread; we’ll—I’ll—put it in the oven for a quick toasting.”

The food wasn’t as good as it would have been at the restaurant. With some things, microwaving just doesn’t. make it. She seemed to play with her food. Refused a. refill of wine. Something was bothering her.

“So? What? You got something you want to say?”

He expected a quick wisecrack, a suggestive tone; something provocative. Instead, looking just past him, she said, “I have to go out of the country sooner than I anticipated.”

Nick put his fork down. “I didn’t know you were going out of the country.”

“I thought I’d mentioned it. Well, anyway. I have to check out plans for next fall’s line …”

“Next fall? It’s still winter. You still got spring …”

“We have to do things far in advance. I have to check with my suppliers, designers. For silk—Bangkok. And Hong Kong for—”

It wasn’t the way she said it: casually. It wasn’t in the words, exactly. But there was some subterranean warning. Back off, Nick.

“That’s a long way—Bangkok, Hong Kong.”

“By plane, the world is very small.”

“Have you been to the Far East often?”

She held his gaze, met his narrowed, questioning eyes for a moment. “I’ve been everywhere. Often.”

All the fun between them seemed to dissolve. For some reason, they were being very careful of each other. He helped her clear the table, waved away coffee and the cannolis they had bought for dessert. He had lost his appetite.

Carefully, he asked her, “How long will you be gone?”

“Depends.”

“When are you leaving?”

In that moment he saw that she regarded him as a stranger, who had no right to question her about anything. She had told him that at the very beginning: No questions, no promises. Only fun. When the fun is gone, well, who knows?

“I take a night flight to Tokyo tomorrow. Then, next morning, on to Hong Kong. So. I’ll call you in a day or two.”

“Laura—”

She reached out and removed his hand from her shoulder as though he had just made a social error.

She said good-bye to him at the elevator; she didn’t want him to see her to her car. That’s what doormen are for, right?

He slammed the door behind him. Straightened up the debris of their dinner. Thought, fleetingly, of Woof: that old dog would love these scraps.

Scrubbing his head under a hot shower, Nick tried not to wonder why in all the world—at this time—Laura Santalvo was going to Tokyo and Bangkok and Hong Kong.

N
ICK WAS PUZZLED BY
his clients. The young couple, Mr. and Mrs. Lee Dong Wen, were well dressed, neatly groomed; both spoke with an upper-class English accent. Their Mercedes was brand-new; they were obviously wealthy people in their late thirties, early forties.

They rejected larger, more expensive houses in the Gardens very quickly. Finally said they preferred a more working-class area in Forest Hills, and when he showed them the attached, six-room Tudor-style house, with an updated kitchen but fairly small rooms, a tiny plot of a yard, a garage underneath the house, they glanced at each other and nodded.

When he asked if they had children, explaining that the public school was just down the street, they merely shook their heads. When he told them there was a bus on the corner that would take them to the 71st-Continental Avenue Independent subway, then twenty-five minutes to Manhattan, they said nothing. Realizing they asked him no questions, Nick shut up. This was what they wanted, for whatever reason. Outside, they stopped on the small square patio, glanced up and down at the similar houses on both sides of the street. It was a quiet area. Generally older people; some retirees could be seen reading newspapers in canvas chairs.

They purchased the house for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—the asking price. They put up a check for half the amount, asked for the soonest possible closing, at which time they would pay the remainder. They asked how soon they could begin shipping in their furniture, rugs, couches, screens, chairs, beds, all from Hong Kong. Nick told them he’d move as quickly as possible.

He looked over the record of transactions concerning this attached house, built during the Depression for thirty-six hundred dollars, five hundred dollars down, with the builder lending that amount if necessary. In slow, then in escalating increments, it was now being sold for a quarter of a million dollars. It didn’t make sense. The last turnover was two years ago. It was sold by Ventura to a Colombian family for one hundred eighty thousand; bought back by Ventura for eighty-five thousand. Now it was sold to this young couple who mentioned they were planning to use it as their American stopover, not as a permanent residence.

There were several similar deals in the property records—quick turnovers, cheap buybacks, ludicrously expensive-resale. An awful lot of money was changing hands—in a thoroughly legal way. Going back a few years, he saw that many of these small “first-home” houses had been sold to names he recognized: kids from “families” in Brooklyn or Queens, turned over within two years or so. Then, about three or four years ago, the houses had been bought, for the most part, by Asians. Word of mouth, right?

He jotted some financial details in a blue testbook. Not a bad way to launder money, inflated real estate transactions.

Laura called him at 9:00
P.M.
The first thing he asked, immediately feeling stupid: “What time is it in Hong Kong?”

“I’m in Tokyo. It’s ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Well, that was a great conversation opener. He felt tense, wished he still smoked. “Was it a good flight? Nice hotel? How the hell are you?”

There was a silence and then finally she spoke. “It was a good flight. The hotel is fine. I am fine. I leave for Hong Kong in an hour. Anything else you want to know?”

“How long will you be gone? When are you coming back?”

He wasn’t surprised by her answer or the tension in her voice. “Nick, this is stupid. I won’t call you again. I’ll see you when I get back.”

He sounded petulant, even to himself. “Hey, you do what you wanna do.”

“Always.” Then, as if realizing how abrupt she had sounded, she allowed a small laugh. “God, you are such a big baby, Mr. Bensonhurst.”

Without another word, Laura hung up.

Sharp, dismissive, unconcerned. Laura had just worked her every unpleasant trait into one conversation with him. No bullshit; no forced light conversations. All business. He thought for a moment. She was right. That was probably why he felt so much anger toward her. He really hadn’t wanted a recitation about her flight, her accommodations, what she did, who she saw.

Yet he wanted to know every minute of every day she spent away from him. He certainly had no right, no claim on her. But still he felt the way he felt.

It was normal, probably, for her to be so offhand and casual and unimpressed about the exotic flow of her life. For her, all the travel was normal.

But he felt upset and uneasy. In a way, he wished she hadn’t called. And then it hit him: He had no way of knowing where she was, where she stayed. No way of reaching her, should he need or even want to.

He’d just have to wait until she returned. As Laura wanted it.

A
HALF HOUR BEFORE LANDING
at Kaituk Airport in Hone Kong, Laura held her cupped hands, filled with cold water, first to her forehead, then her cheeks, then along her chin and neck. She had slept for about three hours flying out of Tokyo. She blotted her face with astringent-soaked cotton; slid on just a few drops of moisturizer, then some colorless lip gloss. She ran her hands through her hair, fluffed it, smoothed it, settled it. She brushed her dress with a small clothing brush, checked that the wrinkles were to a minimum. She looped a pale lavender silk scarf around her neck, twisted it into a distinctive knot, slid it around until it pleased her. She dug into her travel satchel, zipping and unzipping until she found an amethyst ring. It was the only jewelry she wore.

Most of the other passengers in the first-class section of the Northwest Airlines 747 were gathering papers, closing up laptops, checking pockets. And then checking out Laura as she walked to the last row of first class. She was the only woman; all the international businessmen enjoyed the sight of a beautiful woman at the end of the long flight.

When the plane had taxied up to the departure tunnel, the businessmen started to collect in the aisles. A bright, perky Chinese stewardess, smiling, held her hand up.

“For just a moment, please.” She leaned down toward Laura, spoke a few words, still held her hand up for the other passengers to wait.

They craned to watch Laura as she was escorted, not to the debarkation tunnel but down a hastily supplied flight of stairs leading from the pilot’s quarters. Several bent down, peering through the small thick windows at the procession: a few uniformed men touched their hats in salutes, glanced quickly at her passport and entry documents, smiled, extended a hand to help her toward the Rolls-Royce that waited just steps away. Her luggage appeared immediately and was placed in the trunk of the car.