The Polka Dot Girl Page 15

  “I like. Rose Rouge. Red rose. Makes sense, I suppose.” We began walking to the door and I said, “Never took you for a music-lover, Camilla.”

  “Nah. Most don’t. To them the arts and my, uh…business are incompatible.”

  “You don’t agree, obviously.”

  “What I do and who I am ain’t the same thing, Genie. It’s more complex than that. But I think you knew that already.”

  We had reached the door and Camilla actually had her hand on my back, guiding me outside onto the street, away, away, far away with my intrusive questions and annoying authority to ask them. I didn’t care. Like I said, I was tired. It had been a long and extremely busy day, a bizarre day, chaotic, almost fevered. I wanted—I needed—a long bath, a few drinks and sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream of Cassandra the wonder woman. I stood on the pavement and lit a Dark Nine, about to turn back and say cheerio to Camilla, when I remembered something I’d meant to ask; not connected to her directly, but she might know something.

  “Hey. One more question.” She said impatiently, “What?”

  “You ever heard of a place called That Island? Some sort of club, like a private nightclub? I know it’s not yours but I thought maybe you might have…”

  She had grabbed me above the elbow and whisked me back inside the door before I knew what was what. She bundled me along the corridor, into a quiet corner, still clamping my arm in her powerful grip.

  I laughed nervously. “What?”

  “What do you know about that place?”

  “Not much. That’s why I’m asking you. Camilla, what is it?” “Don’t mess with that place, Genie. Even the mobsters don’t go there. I’m telling you now. I’m warning you, if you wanna look at it like that. Don’t go near it.”

  She towered over me with a weird look in her eyes, boring into mine but distant, agitated. Not the cool-as-all-hell Camilla I knew, the totally-in-control Camilla. She still held my arm. I gave it a little jiggle to let her know; she looked down at where she had me in her grasp and let go. Camilla breathed out heavily. She looked as tired as I felt. I didn’t say anything, just let the moment get its breath back.

  Then she looked around the corridor and back at me and said quietly, “Genie, you asked me about That Island so I’m telling you: steer clear. I wasn’t joking—you don’t mess with that joint. Even the likes of me don’t.”

  “But why? I’m sorry, I have to ask. It’s my duty as a cop.” Camilla smiled and nodded. “Why? Because it’s too goddamn weird. They ain’t doing it for the money. You dig me? These broads are into something creepy. I’ve heard tell of orgies, real bizarre shit, organized for the full fucking moon, or the new moon, whatever, or timed to coincide with the head lady’s period. How’s that? Weird enough for you?”

  “Right. Orgies.”

  “Sure. Only it’s not so much a sexual thing—shit, I can arrange something like that for a client no problem.”

  We both smiled again. Amazing how that simple lift of the corners of your mouth can release tension, like the face is opening sluice gates of the mind, clearing a blockage.

  Camilla went on, “This ain’t like that. It ain’t…normal. Sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll I can comprehend, but this… It’s like some kinda cult or something. Channeling spirits, goddesses…chants and incantations, candles, fucking incense, stars and pentagrams drawn in chalk on the floor… This is all what I heard. I haven’t been there. I won’t be going there. These religious cult things, they creep me out. I like my religion straight-up and mainstream. I was brought up Catholic, I don’t know if you knew this. But That Island is bad voodoo, kiddo. And I’m telling you this ’cause I like you. Like I said, you always played fair with me. So here’s some friendly advice from your Aunt Camilla: steer clear.”

  She lit two cigarettes and gave one to me. I took a puff—ouch, that’s strong stuff—coughed my way back to equilibrium and said, “But what is it? Is it a nightclub, a brothel, what?”

  “Neither. It’s a private club. A place where likeminded people gather. No business side to it, no profit. Which always makes me nervous. It exists for its own sake. Basically a very large house, nice gardens, looks pretty from the outside. But the thing is, again, it’s private. You don’t just show up there. You get invited.”

  “Who owns it? Who’s behind it?”

  Camilla shook her head. “I don’t know. Nobody seems to know.” There was a pause. “Why are you asking about it? Was the Greenhill kid mixed up with them? Tell me no, please.”

  I looked at her for a full five seconds and decided, no, she’s not fishing for information or playing the game, she’s not being the gangster right now: she’s just a woman called Camilla who’s concerned and curious. She had the right to know some of it. I said, “I got information—which I believe to be solid—that linked Madeleine to this place, That Island. I’m not sure how closely. Maybe she went there once, maybe she went there often, maybe she knew someone who knew someone who knew the girl who works the coat-check. I don’t know. It may not even lead anywhere but I gotta cover all the bases until this thing is cleared, one way or the other.”

  Camilla nodded once more. Then a thought struck me and I voiced it aloud: “Funny Misericordiae didn’t call a halt to her daughter ’s bad behavior right there. If That Island’s as suspicious as it seems, as strange… Just, boomph, ‘That’s the end of it, Madeleine—no more drinking and carousing, no more carrying on. You’ve gone too far and now you’re coming home.’ I mean, it’s one thing indulging her rebelliousness, hoping she’ll grow out of it. But this sounds way beyond the normal misbehavior of boozing and sleeping around.”

  “How would she have known? The kid was wild. Misery didn’t know the half of it.”

  “She must have. That’s my source: a team of PIs she had tailing the girl. They referenced the place in a report made to her, but they were discreet about it. Just described it as a ‘club’ of some sort. No mention of orgies or goddesses or anything close to it.”

  “D’nno. Maybe the dicks were wary of telling her. I mean, nobody likes being the bearer of bad news, right? Not this bad. Not to someone like Misery. Maybe they got scared, put it in the report, real casual like, so’s she couldn’t catch ’em on it later, but vague enough that they’d hope the old bird wouldn’t notice much.” Camilla shrugged. “Hell, maybe she did know. Maybe Misery knew all about it and couldn’t admit it to herself. It’s gotta be a hell of a thing, for a woman like her, facing up to something like that.”

  That made some sense. Both angles made some sense. If I was the paid detective and I came across something this weird, this out-of-bounds, cults and orgies and moon-worship and whatever-the-fuck-else, would I have the guts to give it to her straight? A woman like Misery, that old dragon with the blood- curdling reputation, and more, a famously devout religious tradi- tionalist… Probably not. And then there was the flipside: the possibility that one of her sleuths did give her the full skinny and she couldn’t take it. That one was less likely—Misery seemed to me possessed of one of those unbreakable spirits, like a sheer rock wall rising up inside her, strengthening her, straightening her, implacable and impenetrable. But…who knows? Only one person did, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to ask her.

  “Hey. Snap out of it.”

  Camilla had one hand towards the door. Merrylegs stood behind her, a little extra encouragement for me to leave. The nightclub queen said, “You got all you’re gonna get from me. Now beat it, please. Having the bulls around ain’t good for my reputation.”

  I nodded and smiled. I was doing that a lot lately. “You know, Camilla, for such a rough old dog, you’re surprisingly perceptive of human nature. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Sure. Just before I set her legs in concrete and chucked her in the river. That’s a joke, by the way, so don’t waste your time checking through the unsolveds.”

  The three of us ambled to the door. Merrylegs went out onto the street first and stood there, hands behind her back, sad-fac
ed and resolute. I stepped out and said to her, “Hey, why do they call you Merrylegs, anyway?”

  She looked at her boss as though seeking permission, then smiled at me. “It’s ’cause I’m such a good dancer.”

  I must have looked skeptical because then I heard Camilla say, “Go ahead, Merrylegs. Show her what you got. Give our little detective some of that soft-shoe shuffle.”

  The hood lifted the hat off her head and started humming, something jazzy, old school and big band, a nice swing to it. Then she began waggling the hat gently and tap-tap-tapping her way along the pavement, feet crossed, bent low, an easy sway to her, quick-slow, quick-quick-slow. People stopped to watch as she hummed and shuffled and held our attention locked down.

  Well, I’ll be damned. Merrylegs could dance. I left her to it, moving like a professional, like someone in an old-fashioned film, under the cheap yellow spotlights of a Hera City backstreet.

  Chapter 15

  Arlene

  I SLEPT late the next morning. I slept long and deep the night before. For the first time in an age, I dreamed.

  Someone cleverer than me once said that dreams were meaningless; they were just the sense information of the previous day being ordered and discarded, the subconscious cleaning house, jettisoning the mental junk, ensuring fresh clarity for another day in the real world. I don’t know about that. I slept for ten solid hours and it felt like I was dreaming for every endless minute. It felt realer than real.

  I dreamed of Madeleine Greenhill underwater but it couldn’t have been Madeleine because her dress was different and she had Misery’s face. I dreamed of Poison Rose and she had Madeleine’s face. I dreamed of Virginia Newman even though I didn’t know what she looked like. I dreamed of ancient-looking crows sitting on Madeleine’s tombstone or keeping guard from the high trees above, their horrible discordant cackle like a warning to stay away. I dreamed of murky water lapping against the rotting old piers at Whinlatter, water like an oil spill, tired and viscous, coating all surfaces, sucking Madeleine-who-couldn’t-have-been- Madeleine further into the darkness. I even dreamed of goddamn Merrylegs doing her strange little shuffle in the twilight glow of the streetlamps.

  I dreamed of Cassandra the wonder woman, who was lying on a fur rug on the floor of a round room I’d never seen before, naked and covering her nakedness with crossed arms and legs. A slice of incredibly bright light streamed in, accentuating her every curve, illuminating her, making her golden. Even in sleep I ached for her, I wanted to possess her absolutely. But as I moved forward and reached out to touch Cassandra she smiled and playfully waved a finger in a “tut-tut” motion and said, “Ah-ah—that’s as far as you get, Detective.”

  I woke up sticking to sweat-soaked sheets and with a dryness in my mouth like I’d been mainlining straight whiskey for four days. And my desire for Cassandra lingered on.

  I took a long hot shower to clear my head and heart, got dressed and headed for the Dicks building without breakfast. It was nearing 11 by the time I arrived, hoping my tardiness wouldn’t be noticed. I needn’t have bothered hoping. Etienne was actually sitting at my desk when I got there, skimming through reports, her reading glasses perched on her nose. They made her look like a bird, for some reason.

  She said without looking up, “Jamie Sobel has come forward to represent the five women. Where have you been?”

  I spluttered something, a muttered apology, keep it vague, keep the conversation moving forward. Etienne finally looked up. I was relieved to see her expression was more concern than disappointment.

  She said, “You’re late for work, Auf der Maur. That’s not like you. Is everything alright?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m just, I’m tired, Chief. Sorry, I slept in. That’s literally it.”

  “Is this case too much for you? Should I rotate you off it? I can bring over someone from Narco. It’s been quiet for them recently. Maybe Guardiola.”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m on top of it, honestly. I’m just… I’ll be okay. Just tired. I had a good night’s sleep last night.”

  “You left a crime scene without reporting, there were two attempts on your life, and now this. You should have been at the arraignment hearing this morning. It’s not a requirement but as the investigating officer… Tell me again that everything is fine, Auf der Maur. Because it doesn’t seem that way from where I’m sitting. Wherever I happen to be sitting.”

  She gave a tiny smile. I said, “I swear to God, Chief—every- thing really is okay. I was just, yesterday was hectic, I was all over the place, I mean literally. I was…exhausted by the end of it. But I’m okay now. It won’t happen again.”

  Etienne nodded, semi-satisfied. “I told you before that I trust your mind, how you think. You’re smart and you’ve got your head screwed on right. I know that. So I’m going to trust you again—for now. But any more odd stuff, anything else happens outside exact procedure: I’ll pull you off the case.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She gestured to a chair at the near side of the desk. “Sit.”

  I sat. She straightened her bunch of documents on the desk, lined them up straight with the edge, placed them flat with her spectacles on top. She looked at me again and said, “You heard what I said about Jamie Sobel?”

  “Yeah, sorry, she’s…what exactly?”

  “She is now representing the five women who ‘confessed’, quote-unquote, to the murder of Madeleine Greenhill. Hofton, Spaulding, Klosterman, Villegas and Arendt. Stood for them this morning at the hearing. During which, I might add, they all pleaded not guilty.”

  “But we’ve got confessions. I mean, I know they’re bullshit confessions, but they’re still confessions.”

  “Such is the wonder of our legal system, Detective. You can be caught doing the deed on live television and sign a confession in the victim’s blood—doesn’t matter. You have the right to a trial and the right to plead whatever way you see fit.”

  “It’s such a set-up. Time-wasting tactics. Someone is totally pulling our chain here, Chief.”

  “Agreed. But there’s nothing we can do about it right now. Let’s just keep on as we are; as if those women didn’t exist. Let’s you keep on it.”

  “Sobel… How the hell does someone like her get mixed up in this?”

  “She’s a defense lawyer. She works for whoever will pay her.

  C’est tout. Nothing more to it than that, I would think.”

  Only 35, Jamie Sobel was the most successful, in-demand and well-remunerated attorney in Hera City. A brilliant, incandescent mind coupled with a personality that could dominate a courtroom while somehow never coming across as bullying or overly forceful. Sobel made juries warm to her as a woman and simultaneously believe she was omnipotent, she could not be wrong. I don’t remember the last case she lost. As a cop I say this reluctantly, but she was a fucking legal genius. Which is why she charged what she liked and worked whatever cases took her fancy. Which made me figure that whoever was behind the five in lock-up had serious funds behind her, or them. Klosterman was probably solvent enough—public appearances, endorse- ments of athletic gear, though all that was now dead in the water. But Hofton only had a part-time job, Spaulding had none. Villegas, I supposed, did well out of her crèche. And Arendt would have been pulling down six figures probably, but rich enough to hire Jamie Sobel? Not a chance. CONSPIRACY, with a capital C and capital everything else.

  I said, “Who’s behind her? Who’s paying the piper here?” Etienne shrugged. “We don’t know. And we’ve no way of finding out. ‘Client-attorney privilege.’ Extends to financial matters.”

  “And what happened? In court today.”

  “All five remanded in custody for trial. The prosecutor is hoping for a month from now, six weeks at most. No bail. Actually, Sobel didn’t apply for bail, which I found… They all just filed in, stood there without a peep and filed out again. Like—like sheep. Like drugged women.”

  “They weren’t, I presume? Drugged?”

  “Tox rep
orts all negative. They’re clean. It’s so strange. I was in the building for a meeting. Popped my head into court. Klosterman was the only who showed any sort of…life. Any fire. She’s a scary one, that one. But the others? It’s like they weren’t even there. Their bodies stood before the judge but their minds…”

  Etienne shrugged again. She lifted her glasses and the pile of documents and stood up, stretching her back in obvious discomfort. Small detectives’ chairs weren’t designed with tall bosses in mind. I stood too. She said, off-hand, “Anything else to report?”

  I thought of Cella, thought of my two-way information feed. Etienne didn’t need to know that right now, if ever. I scrunched up my face, pretending to be thinking, and said, “From yesterday? Um, not too much. Made a few calls on a few people. Got some useful stuff. I mean, nothing I can use right away, but you know. I’m, uh, we’re getting there.”

  Etienne left without saying anything more. I needed a coffee. I’d lied to the Big Kahuna—that hadn’t been a good night’s sleep at all. It was too deep, too sensual, too many ghosts babbling for attention. I was starting to get a headache from tiredness, that dull throb behind the bridge of the nose.

  I sauntered over to the main office, heading in the general direction of the coffee machine. An unusually large group of dicks was clustered around it, chattering excitedly, some making extravagant hand gestures, some with eyes open wide, one or two laughing in a way that suggested they felt they shouldn’t be. I slipped between the knots of people and filled my mug with hot brown something—possibly coffee of some sort. Then I turned and recognized one of the group, by face if not by name.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s all the commotion? One of you win the lottery or something?”

  “Hey yourself. Genie, isn’t it?” “That’s right.”

  “I knew I knew you. Met you at…uuh…yeah, Leigh Knowles’ party. A couple of months back.” “Leigh’s party. Okay.”

  “Arlene Galanis.” We shook hands. “You’re Homicide, right? I seem to remember you saying you were Homicide.”