Even (42 page)

“Eight’s fine.”

“OK, so where to meet? Do you know Esperanto’s? In the Village?”

“I can find it.”

“That’s fine then. See you there.”

The main dining room at Esperanto’s was on the first floor, but they wouldn’t let you up there until you were ready to order. If you were still waiting for anyone you had to stay downstairs, in the bar. Which was tiny. About the size of a normal coat closet. It was too small for tables. You had to stand, sandwiched between the staircase and the counter, being constantly jostled by a noisy throng of overly cheerful customers.

Julianne was forty minutes late. And when she arrived, she wasn’t exactly rushing. She just strolled in, saw me, waved, and waited for me to push my way through the crowd. At least she showed some enthusiasm when I did finally reach her. She threw her arms around me, hugged me tight, and kissed me on both cheeks. She must have just showered. I noticed her hair was still damp. And that it smelled of coconut.

A waiter was standing at the top of the stairs, between us and the tables. They were divided into three regimented blocks of twenty. The nearest ones had red and yellow tablecloths. The central group had red and blue. The farthest had red and green.

“Good evening,” the waiter said. “Spanish, French, or Italian?”

“English,” I said. “And American.”

Julianne giggled.

“No, sir,” he said, gesturing to the tables. “Your choice of cuisine?”

Add in the white of the walls, and the color scheme suddenly made sense.

“Any preference?” I said to Julianne.

“Me? No.”

“Then let’s go with Italian,” I said, with an eye on the table in the far corner. It would give me the clearest view of the whole restaurant. I didn’t know if Julianne had invited any other guests.

Julianne let the waiter take her jacket. Her blouse was slim and tightly fitted, her slacks had no pockets, and she was wearing boots. That just left her purse. It was unzipped. She was holding on to it as we sat down, then I saw her lean it against the table leg on her right-hand side. I nudged it with my foot, knocking it over. She reached down and retrieved it. But not before I’d caught the glint of metal near the top.

The waiter came back for our order, and then Julianne excused herself. I left it a moment and then followed her. The corridor leading to the restrooms was long and dingy. I had to press myself against the wall to let an older woman squeeze by, coming from the other direction.

“You haven’t seen a little girl, have you?” I said. “I’m looking for my daughter. She’s six years old.”

“No,” the woman said. “Sorry.”

“She didn’t just go in the bathroom?”

“No. That was a tall lady. Good-looking.”

“Five eleven, white blouse, black slacks?”

“Sounds about right. Why?”

“That’s my wife. She’ll know where the kid is. I’ll just wait outside.”

I moved up to the restroom door and listened. I could hear a soft electronic beeping sound. A cell phone keypad. Julianne was texting. Then the toilet flushed. The lock slid back. The door started to open. I let it move an inch and then shoved it, hard, with my right hand. It slammed back into Julianne’s face, breaking her nose. Blood spurted onto her blouse, scarlet and soggy against the crisp white cotton. I pushed her back, stepped into the tiny space, and locked the door behind me. Julianne snarled. And dropped her phone in the toilet.

Julianne’s purse had fallen on the floor. I leaned down to grab it and she tried to kick me. I blocked with my forearms. She pulled back, but I kept hold of her foot. Then I lifted and twisted at the same time, throwing her sideways. Her head smashed into the wall, dazing her for a moment. I grabbed the purse. I slid my hand inside. My fingers closed around wood and metal. It was the handstock of a small revolver. A Colt Detective Special. Only this woman was no detective.

Julianne straightened up and looked me straight in the face.

“You know what I’m going to ask you,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

“Where is she?” I said. “Lesley.”

“How would I know?” she said.

“Because you work for her.”

“I don’t. I’m a journalist.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But either way, you do work for Lesley.”

“Who told you? They’re lying.”

“I don’t think so. It’s a good source. Your hair.”

“What the hell has my hair got to do with it?”

“It smells of coconut. You just washed it.”

“So?”

“It smelled the same in Lesley’s cage. When we first met. You told me you’d been in there for three days. No hair smells that fresh after three days. You were a plant. I should have realized at the time.”

“That’s ridiculous. I got too close. I was kidnapped.”

“It’s all right. I know what you were doing. It all makes sense, now. Gently pumping me for information, when we talked. Getting us caught, when we escaped. Testing my nerve, at the hotel. What were you planning for tonight? To serve me up as dessert?”

She didn’t react.

“Drop the pretense, Julianne. Drop it now. And tell me where she is.”

She didn’t answer.

“OK,” I said. “Take a minute. Think carefully. There’s something you have to understand. Lesley killed my friend. For no good reason. She did it just to get back at me. That means there is nothing—nothing—I will not do to find her.”

“I can’t tell you,” she said. “You know what she’ll do to me.”

I thought of Tanya’s face, the last time I’d seen her. Her hair, loose, fanned out against the stainless steel. The porcelain wedge under her neck, like a pillow. And the lines of crude blue stitches the pathologist had left when he’d roughly sewn her back together.

I do
, I thought.
And it wouldn’t be enough
.

“Is she in the city?” I said. “Tell me that much.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Tell me where, and she’ll be dead by midnight. I guarantee.”

She didn’t reply.

“Otherwise I might start thinking, who could have told Lesley about Tanya and me?” I said. “Who knew I was meeting someone from the consulate for dinner that night?”

She didn’t reply.

“I might start thinking, do I really need you?” I said. “You just texted someone. I could wait for them. Let them take me to her.”

Still she kept silent.

“So let me make this as simple as possible,” I said, raising the gun. “Tell me where Lesley is. Or I’ll shoot you in the head.”

She gave me an address in the Bronx.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now, let me check one last thing. Just then, did I say, ‘Or I’ll shoot you?’ ”

“Yes, you did,” she said. “Why?”

“I’m sorry about that. I should have said, ‘And . . . ’”

I pulled the trigger, twice, then checked my watch. It was eleven minutes before 9:00
P.M.
Over three hours to midnight. It wasn’t far to the Bronx. Plenty of time to keep the other promise I’d made.