The Granite Moth (6 page)

“You sure this is the spot?” the driver asked. We had pulled up in front of a tall office building, and it looked deserted except for the lobby attendant. That was part of the allure, I knew. Anonymity and a hint of intrigue. More than a hint in my case, but I wasn't turning back. I handed the drive two twenties and told him to keep the change. He turned on the interior light to make a note on his clipboard. With one last deep breath, I forced myself to turn the door handle and slipped out.

“Good luck,” the cabbie called before I slammed the door behind me. Did he say that to all his fares? Or was I giving off a smell of desperation? I waved my thanks through the glass and pulled my fake Chanel bag onto my shoulder. I'd dealt myself a hand. There was nothing else to do but play.

CHAPTER SIX

I
had spent the afternoon stressing over the level of security required of a private city club, but in the end, an assertive walk and laminated I.D. were all I needed to be waved through the gates to the elevator bank. If all went according to plan, Ellis's brother would have vouched for me, pushing my trial membership through the usual red tape. My net worth may have been exaggerated, my political connections inflated. Then again, why shouldn't I winter in the Riviera? I put my bikini on one leg at a time like everyone else.

The maître d' looked a lot more formidable than the building's lone guard I had spotted roaming the lobby. I knew that hosts and hostesses at swank places like this were often restaurateurs in the making, able to list every customer's quirks and—more importantly—accommodate them. I wouldn't be able to stroll in un-noted, and as expected, the woman greeted me with the right amount of welcome and suspicion.

“Good evening, ma'am. So nice to see you tonight. Are you joining us?”

Membership at The Skyview had a six-month to a year wait time, and the most likely reason for my appearance was that they had recently lost a member. I could almost see the woman hoping that meant someone had died rather than someone had been dissatisfied with the service. Her more pressing hope was that she hadn't been kept out of the loop on purpose, a sure indicator of an imminent coup. To summarize, I'd unnerved her a little, which might not be a bad start to our relationship. She came around the podium to shake my hand, and I noticed silver stilettos peeking out below the hem of her tailored trousers. Here was a woman used to the pain caused by an eight-hour shift standing on needles. Tough, I surmised, and grasped her outstretched palm.

“Kennedy Vanders. I've been positively dying to get into this vault,” I began, showing how much I respected her work, then shifted gears to show my own influence. “I may have leapfrogged the line, I'm afraid, but I really couldn't stand the thought of waiting until I got back from Portofino next month.”

“Of course not. Would you like to sit at the bar while your table is prepared?”

“Oh yes, thank you.”

I followed her gesture to a marble slab where two women in understatedly expensive dresses discussed the Met's new season, lamenting the lack of Puccini over their rieslings. I sat far away from them, not wanting to test my opera knowledge over chitchat, and pretended to study my phone's planner. I ordered a champagne, waving off the question of brand with “whatever you recommend” and tried to study the landscape discreetly. I'd read that FIFA referees practice eye exercises to improve their peripheral vision, and I envied their range. Could I find a sight trainer? If any city in the world had such an occupation, it would be New York. I typed a few random
words on my phone to look busy, then took a less furtive look at my surroundings.

The space was larger than I would have guessed, taking up the building's entire floor—not all of it visible, of course, but Ellis had pulled the floorplan for me. There was a kitchen nearby, but not a single crashing pot could be heard in the dining area. The thirty or so tables were spaced far apart to give the illusion of privacy. When I accidentally made eye contact with a once chart-topping singer, I turned my attention to the view of Central Park. As myself, I would have blushed, but Kennedy wouldn't care about a has-been, no matter the still-healthy balance on the warbler's bank account. Anyway, I was more interested in the velvet curtain designating a VIP room or party space.

Getting a table was my first hurdle, and I knew that Miss Hostess wasn't really preparing it, but rather scouring her database for my name and history, puzzling out who on staff had phoned in a favor. Only the owner had that much authority, so when my name appeared (fingers crossed), she would have to accept my presence and start buttering me up. Speaking of buttering, from my brief perusal of the room, the lobster looked divine, and I was looking forward to the menu even as the thought of spending a hundred dollars for dinner made my skin crawl. Scrimping on costs would be a giveaway, though. Plus, a generous client had handed me a bonus that I didn't deserve on my last case. I planned to invest it in making the city safer, and if that meant choking down some chocolate soufflé, call me a martyr and add me to the society page. Under a pseudonym, please.

When the hostess came back into view, there was no trace of frustration on her perfectly unlined brow, but she must have felt slightly off-kilter by my reservation.
When had it been added
, she was asking herself. She was probably the same age
as Kennedy, early 30s, only a few years older than my actual age, and I couldn't help but be impressed that she kept this high-end of high-end establishments running smoothly. When I smiled at her, it was mostly genuine. I wasn't as sure about her returning beam. The white sheen off her canines seemed more bleach than genetic.

“Right this way, Ms. Vanders,” she said, gesturing toward a corner table that would allow me to survey the entire room. That is to say, a prime spot, and I silently thanked the Dekker family for their influence.

“Please, Kennedy is fine. I didn't catch your name,” I said, turning to fully face her.

“Bethany Rosen. Beth. We hope you enjoy your visit. It's not every day we get to entertain a new guest.”

“Really? I knew the waitlist was long, but someone must be plucked from the maddening crowd from time to time.”

“From time to time, yes.” Beth handed me a wine list, recommended the steak tartare, then vanished, hopefully to worry about something besides me. Maybe there could be a shortage of truffles. A celebrity meltdown? I surveyed my fellow diners to see who might be in need of a Valium.

Aside from the singer, I didn't recognize anyone. I'm sure another perusal of
Vanity Fair
would have revealed a few well-known faces, but I didn't keep up with the Manhattan socialites. I slid into my chair and eavesdropped on the chatter of the nearest two tables. I admit to being slightly disappointed by their banality. Sure, their diamonds were real, but their conversations would have worked as well on the bus. I caught snippets about postponed vacations and sick children. A couple debated the merits of the latest blockbuster,
The World Ends Again
. When one man started boasting about his portfolio, I almost sighed with relief. See? They were different than us.

I was so caught up in my casual judgment of strangers that I almost missed the appearance of Eva Magrelli. And she's hard to miss. When I had first met the eldest Costa, she had favored bright nylon dresses and stacked heels. Even then, she had a poise that set her apart from the other young women in the neighborhood. It wasn't simply that she was prettier—and with her long, tan legs and matching mane, she definitely was—but that she oozed a certain peace with the world. As if she knew she wouldn't always live in the cramped Bronx apartment that her mother filled with the scent of grilled onions by noon each day. Seeing her now in designer slacks and a cardigan didn't seem like a total transformation. Rather, the other Eva, the Costa girl, was a role she had been playing, and didn't she deserve her statue now?

Eva handed Beth a small slip of paper, patting the hostess on the arm in a way that implied they were friendly if not friends. Both women glanced over at a man who had sat down at the bar, and I guessed him to be a member without a reservation. When Eva approached him with a sad shake of her head, I thought we might get to see some entitled anger in action. Instead, the man shrugged in defeat and accepted the complimentary cognac the bartender served him. I couldn't hear at my distance, but the scene was easy to interpret. “It was worth a shot, yada, yada, yada.” My server cleared his throat to get my attention.

“Good evening, ma'am. My name is Gustav, and I'll be taking care of you this evening. Would you like to start with another glass of champagne?”

I paused to consider the questioner. Not the young, attractive actors employed at lesser establishments, but a seasoned professional who could easily take home five hundred dollars a night here. There weren't any prices on the menu, but I guessed that the businessmen at the table across the room from me would spend a cool two grand alone.

As I asked for a recommendation and glanced over the list of wine names, I lost track of Eva. I willed myself to be patient as I accepted Gustav's first choice. He approved of my decision and disappeared as someone else brought over a complimentary
amuse-bouche
. I nibbled at the cheesy edges of the delicacy, sipped my sparkling water, and snuck glances at the velvet curtain, desperately wanting to know what or who lurked behind. The green fabric color choice wasn't lost on me, and which sad Oz character was I? I wasn't feeling brave, but then again, I hadn't asked the cab driver to turn around and take me home. That left me without a heart or brains. Hell, maybe I was some sort of tin lion hybrid. Somehow, I doubted the wizard behind this partition would be inclined to help me.

I was concerned that Eva might recognize me, but not overly scared. My face is unmemorable; the bones seem to shift, depending on the light. Plus, I had been passing for Puerto Rican when I lived next door to her family. With my recently sunscreen-protected skin, I was at least three shades lighter. Add the red wig, and a census worker would check “Caucasian” or “Of European decent.” Not completely inaccurate, if you considered Russia part of Europe, but not the whole story. Since when did a race box tell you the whole story? I thought back to my Polish cabdriver and hoped my great-grandparents weren't rolling in their graves at my flippancy.

The meal was uneventful. I ordered as extravagantly as I dared, knowing that a larger check would make my request to join the VIP action a bit more palatable. With that in mind, I selected items from every category, despite not being a first course kind of gal, not wanting to waste valuable stomach space on soup or salad. The dessert wasn't a burden, and I was scraping up the last of the
crème fraîche
when the waiter came to check on my progress.

“Everything was wonderful, thank you.”

“I'm
glad you enjoyed your meal. We hope to see more of you.” Gustav bowed slightly—not obsequious, but respectful. His gold wedding band was the only indication of a life outside this room. His auburn hair was gray around the edges, and I speculated on his past. The Skyview had only been open for a year, so had he been unemployed like so many others in this city? Lost in the shuffle when a prior stalwart of the restaurant scene closed its doors maybe? What did he know about the proprietor's shady connections? I wouldn't get a chance to find out, although I doubted he would break under interrogation anyway. A server of his caliber would be old-school loyal. A talent for keeping your lips sealed was a valuable commodity in any industry.

“Oh, I'm sure you will,” I replied after a beat. “I've been told you have entertainment for anyone so inclined.” I paused to make sure that he understood my meaning. He did, but double-checked anyway.

“Yes, there's live music every Saturday. This week a trio from the Mannes faculty will be performing.”

“Delightful. I was thinking of something in particular for tonight. Cards,” I finished bluntly.

He bowed again. “Of course, ma'am. Let me find out for you.”

He left the bill on the table, and I managed not to gasp when I peeked at the total. It was worse than I expected. I didn't want to think about how many pasta and jarred sauce meals were in my future to make up for this evening's splurge. And it wasn't finished, yet. I was counting on the club's vetting process to be good enough to grant me access to the game, but was still surprised when Gustav returned so quickly to tell me that the group would welcome a new face. I figured that they had actually said “new target” or “new sucker,” but I thanked him, handing over exact change. I can fake a lot of documents, but credit card fraud isn't on my resume.

Gustav tucked the leather holder into his apron, then gestured for me to head toward the curtain, which seemed to grow more mysterious with each step. I hoped for something otherworldly behind it—sword swallowers or contortionists at the very least—but found merely a long oak-paneled hallway with metal doors, much more sedate than the dining and bar area. Behind the last door, the sound of poker chips piling onto each other could be heard over muffled conversation, and I went in before I lost my resolve.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I knew that I would be sized up. I imagined the chuckles the men repressed when they saw me. Some stereotypes work in your favor if you know how to use them, and I was sure every last one of the four players would assume a woman wearing diamond studs and carrying a Chanel purse wouldn't know her way around a deck of cards. That included the lone other female, cracking open a new pack and eyeing me over the rims of her thick reading glasses. I nodded at her, a possible ally if I needed one. She nodded back, and I announced myself to the others present.

“Kennedy Starkweather Vanders. Pardon the intrusion, but may I join you?”