Читать книгу False Impressions - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 14

7

As I left the club, two doormen stood there, both huge, dressed in shearling coats and hats.

“Hi guys,” I said. “Did you see a woman leave here recently?”

“Uh, yeah,” one said, and I could tell he wanted to add, duh.

Muriel had said she didn’t know why Madeline left, but that nothing had seemed odd. Madeline had told them to put everything on her tab, and that was that.

“She’s a Japanese woman,” I said to the bouncers.

Neither responded.

“She’s really beautiful,” I said.

“Lotta pretty women here,” the other bouncer said.

I thanked them and left, stepping onto the sidewalk. Like a dark painting, the canvas outside was mostly black. Steel charcoal-gray beams slashed back and forth overhead, carrying lit boxes—the El train carting people east and west. Aside from the train, the neighborhood was desolate, very few cars.

Suddenly I wondered if Madeline was sick. Could that be why she had left so quickly? I walked up the block, looking in alleys. No sign of her.

I walked back, past the club and down a few blocks, doing the same thing. I was thankful I didn’t find her throwing up in an alley, but I was still worried.

I pulled my phone out of my purse. I texted, Hi, it’s Izzy. You okay?

I paced the sidewalk again, hoping for a reply. An occasional car passed. It had snowed a little since we were inside, and the tires from each car shot a little spray of slush onto the street.

I tried calling her. Nothing.

I tried again. This time I left a message. Hi Madeline. Sounds like you left. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Can you call me?

I couldn’t shake what she had described—feeling like someone had been in her place.

One more round of pacing the sidewalk, then I decided it was time to go. I started searching for a cab but saw none.

I was making my way back to the club, to ask the doormen for help, when a sudden flurry of white and blue pulled to the curb. A Chicago police car.

The front door opened. A man stepped out. He wore a big gray jacket, bulky, not because he was fat but because he was wearing a bulletproof vest. You got used to the look in Chicago.

He turned to me. And I got a flash of a memory.

I opened my mouth. I could find only one word. “Vaughn.”