Don't Know Jack (32 page)

“These gorgeous creatures are hookers?”

Gaspar seemed bewildered; she had no patience for silliness. Not now.

“This is
Wallace and Company
. Try not to be such a Miami rube, will you?”

Too harsh.

He snapped back, “Little Miss Detroit knows all things Washington?”

Softer reply. “Four years of Georgetown law school for my JD/MBA left me no choice. DC overwhelms you even more than New York. Seeps into your bones. Never leaves.”

One choice, right choice
.

Kim led Gaspar to a line of guests awaiting their hostess poised amid a gaggle of beauties at the receiving line’s end. They shuffled forward after each guest was welcomed, ever closer to humiliation. Her heart pounded, and her breathing was shallow. Acid churned in her stomach. She wiped sweaty palms on her thighs. Her hands didn’t get drier.

The final group moved past their hostess. Straight ahead now was Marion Wallace. Perhaps the most famous courtesan to power since Madame de Pompadour. Vivid beyond reason. Exquisite alabaster skin. Amazing violet eyes and inky lashes. Lush full lips perpetually upturned. Leonine mane loosely flowing from crown below taut chin. Diamonds and sapphires adorned lobes and clavicle above perfect neckline.

Intimidating as hell.

And as poisonous as she’d been on Kim’s wedding day.

“Welcome to my home,” Marion said. A white-gloved hand was extended for a brief squeeze.

Kim’s voice deserted her. She squeezed back, and was released.

Gaspar stepped up. He said their names and handed over two business cards, one for each of them. Marion glanced at the cards and placed them on a silver tray next to her throne with all the others.

Gaspar said, “We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Wallace. Maybe five minutes. After you’ve received your guests.”

Marion exhibited the kind of grace under pressure that Kim had yet to master. “I’ll be pleased to help you if I can. We will talk privately in my salon when I’m free. In the meantime, please enjoy yourselves.”

Thus dismissed, an assistant waved them forward.

Was it possible Marion didn’t remember Kim at all?

Thank you, God
.

Gaspar shifted his weight, and clasped his hands and said, “Let’s find a less conspicuous place to cool our heels. I feel like an underdressed prune in a loaf of angel food cake.”

Kim moved toward Marion’s salon. He followed, entranced by the spectacle.

She said, “Don’t worry. Dressed in FBI ugly, people will think we’re the security team. Totally ignorable.”

“Where’s our Gabrielle?” Gaspar asked, after putting his back to the wall. “She sounded fun. Maybe even affordable on a government salary.”

“She’ll find us, I’m sure.”

He said, “I talked to the boss. I need to fill you in. And Roscoe’s trying to reach you. Wouldn’t say why. And while you were girl-talking with Elle, I went through the rest of Sylvia’s mail.”

“Find anything?”

“I found a batch of envelopes forwarded to Margrave and returned to 4719 as undeliverable. All dated about three months ago, when our boy Alfred Lane came on the scene. What did Elle call him?  A stickler?  Looking like you were right about the demolished mailbox.”

“What else?”

“4720 yielded more. I’ll give you the blow-by-blow in the car later.”  He fished out his phone. Pulled up a picture. “But it led me to this old mug shot.”

Kim examined the photo. The accused was identified as Susan Kane. She looked good. Classy. Well tended. Dazzling smile. Hair and makeup about the same. Like Marion Wallace, she hadn’t aged.

At six o’clock Kim noticed a change in the noise level. The crowd was thinning as escorts with prior engagements departed to meet their dates. Two or three well-attired men talked near the entrance where the reception line would form again.

Gaspar said, “Criminal records came up pretty quickly once I had the right name. Three counts of prostitution. Right here in DC, if you can imagine. Some big scandal. Pled guilty. Sentence suspended.”

Kim handed the phone back, suddenly weary. Two years after Van’s desertion. One year after her testimony. A senator and two Russian diplomats were caught having rough sex with hookers provided by lobbyists. Finally. But there were few arrests and fewer resignations. Sacrificial lambs only. Wright & Company closed, but only briefly.

Now six short years later Marion Wallace was conducting business as usual. Grievance was etched indelible on Kim’s heart.

“Kimmy!  Honey!  Look who I found!”  The voice carried above the party sounds from twenty feet away.

Kim opened her eyes to see Elle approaching as swiftly as she could in the tight skirt, babbling like a cheerleader the entire distance, arm-in-arm with the unmistakable Sylvia Kent Black. Or Susan Kane. Or whoever she was.

Kim instantly recalled Elle’s bar talk.

“Kimmy, it’s a great life, don’t you think?  Every night is like a drama; different names, different scripts. A stage where I’m the star. The phone rings, curtain goes up, the play begins. Always a little tension, Kimmy. The adrenaline never stops. When it’s not so great, the money’s still good. Sylvia’s just like me. That’s why we get along so well, you know?”

Elle was ten feet away now. Sylvia looked reluctant. Then as if the moment was elaborately choreographed, the salon door opened wide revealing tasteful furnishings in historic hues.

Unchanged, Kim thought.

Surreal.

Peach and ivory brocade, gold tassels, and spring green stripes, all blended to please. Plush carpets, cozy fire, Marion Wallace reposed in the same green brocade Louis XV armchair, at the same end of the same rectangular grouping. On each side of her, white brocade sofas faced each other. Even the same silver tea service graced the coffee table between. The entire tableau made Kim woozy.

“Mr. Gaspar, Ms. Otto, Mrs. Wallace can see you now.”  A well-coiffed assistant waved them inside using her entire body as if introducing another stage performer.

At that precise moment, Elle arrived, slightly breathless. She stopped at the open salon entrance and the assistant said, “Thank you, Gabrielle. Susan, Mrs. Wallace invites you to join her. This way everyone, please.”

Elle grinned, and released Sylvia’s arm. “Go ahead, honey. We’ll all visit later.”

#

What, Kim wondered now, was real about Sylvia Black?  Not her name. Which was disorienting. Names mattered to Kim. They meant something. But this woman was never Sylvia Black at all. Had she known Van?

The assistant left the room and Sylvia approached Marion Wallace as a commoner might approach a queen, with obsequious smiles and air kisses, and no touching.

“You look wonderful, dear,” Sylvia said. “I’ve missed you. I’m so sorry we’ve been apart such a long time.”

Marion gave her the same official smile and the same gloved squeeze she’d given everyone else. As far as Kim knew, Marion Wallace never had any real friends and she never would. All business, all the time, now as then.

Sylvia perched herself on one sofa as young women learned to do in finishing school once upon a time. Skirt pulled down as far as it would reach near her pressed together knees; ankles crossed. She removed white gloves and laid them neatly beside her handbag.

Marion turned to Kim and Gaspar as if they were visiting diplomats, and extended her hand to each again. Gestured toward the sofa opposite Sylvia.

“Where’s that handsome boyfriend of yours, Susan?” Marion asked, after pouring tea from the silver service into bone china cups.

“Work, unfortunately.”  Syliva did not lift the teacup. Nor did Kim.

Marion passed a small plate of shortbread. Only Gaspar accepted.

Marion asked, “Is his office still at the top of the Hoover building?”

The question startled Sylvia briefly. “Yes, of course.”

“I suppose there’s only one better address in the world,” Marion mused. “Very helpful to you when that unfortunate business happened, though, wasn’t it?”  She glanced down at her watch as if she’d just recalled an important meeting. “Will you excuse me?  I have something else I must attend to. Please carry on.”

Marion stepped out and Sylvia was left facing Kim and Gaspar across the silver. Gaspar got up and planted himself at the exit as if to say Sylvia would not walk out of that room as easily as she’d walked out of Roscoe’s jail cell.

“I should have known Marion wouldn’t have time to visit on hump day.”  Sylvia smiled as she might have indulged an aged aunt. She replaced her gloves. “I am expected elsewhere myself. Was there something in particular you wanted to ask me?”

Gaspar said, “For starters, why don’t you tell us your real name?”

“Elle told me you’d read my mail, Agent Gaspar. I’m sure you already know all about me.”

“Why did you kill Harry Black?” Kim asked. A pretty blunt tactic.

“Kill Harry?  My goodness, why on earth would I do that?”

Gaspar said, “Cut the crap, Sylvia. Or whatever your name is. What the hell is going on here?”

“I take it you haven’t checked in lately,” Sylvia said. “You might want to do that before you get too forceful with me, Agent Gaspar. Your bosses won’t like your tone.”

“You confessed to murder,” he said.

Sylvia was amused. “Are you sure?”

“You called 911. You said you killed Harry Black.”

“I did not. Have you heard the tape yourself?”

Which proved she wasn’t merely foxy, but also sly. And informed. Neither Kim nor Gaspar had heard the actual 911 tape. Roscoe hadn’t heard it, either. And Sylvia knew all that. But how?

What had Sylvia said at the time?  Kim searched her memory. Recalled Roscoe’s report precisely.
“I’m told Sylvia’s exact words were ‘I shot him. He’s dead. I just couldn’t take him anymore.’”

A subtle difference. “I shot him.”  Not, “I killed him.”  Hair splitting?  Maybe. But criminal cases fell apart for less. Harry had been killed by two bullets to the head, but he’d been shot a total of seven times. Five post-mortem. Sylvia might have shot him only after he was dead.

Nothing really tied Sylvia to Harry’s murder. Repeatedly, Roscoe mentioned the crime scene was totally clean. Sylvia had escaped Roscoe’s jail, but a good lawyer would argue she’d been falsely arrested and imprisoned in the first place. He’d sue Margrave and Sylvia would end up owning the whole town.

Was it really possible that Sylvia would walk away free?  They had no warrant. And couldn’t get one based on existing evidence.

Sylvia knew that, too.

“We found the money, Sylvia,” Kim said, quietly.

“What money?” Sylvia asked, deadpan.

“Bernie Owens is dead, too.”

Contrived alarm in Sylvia’s expression. “You killed Bernie?”

“You know we didn’t. Your lover blew up that Chevy with enough explosive to scatter Bernie for ten miles.”

Slight reaction. Kim concluded Sylvia cared for Bernie, but not as much as she cared for the money. She was a hooker, after all. Kim said, “All that cash in Bernie’s car went everywhere, too. Couple hundred thousand, at least. Maybe more.”