Читать книгу Run For The Money - Stephanie Feagan - Страница 7

By the time Mom and I got to the dinner party, I was ready to put myself up for adoption. All the way to Steve’s Georgetown town house, she twisted one emerald earring and muttered about how she shouldn’t have left Midland, that she had a million things to do, that her clients would suffer because she was gadding about the nation’s capital, going to some idiotic dinner party with people she didn’t know and probably didn’t want to know. That led into a diatribe about politics in the United States, and it was at that point that I tuned her out.

Regrettably, the cabbie didn’t tune her out, and by the time we arrived, they were in a hot debate about the state of the union. I guess Lou was awaiting our arrival because he opened the door of the cab. Mom didn’t notice until after she’d summarily told the cabbie he was a socialist radical and if he hated America so much, why didn’t he get the hell out?

Then Lou leaned in and handed the cabbie his fare and I honestly thought Mom would keel over in a dead faint. Her face was the color of a ripe strawberry. She took his hand and he helped her out of the cab, and while we stood there on the sidewalk, I introduced my mother to Lou Santorelli. It hit me that the two of them looked alike, with dark hair and eyes, and skin that leaned toward olive.

Lou didn’t smile, didn’t attempt to be gracious and welcoming, which I naturally expected because he was our host. Instead, he said in a curious voice, “If a man has a problem with how things are, does it make him a treasonous bastard who has no right to live here?”

It took her exactly twenty-three seconds to recover. I know because I counted, while I was praying she wouldn’t turn around and walk off.

“If all he can do is blame the government for every stinkin’ problem in his life, and insist how much better it is everywhere else in the world, then no, he doesn’t deserve to live here. He should take his pissy, whiny attitude across the ocean. Any ocean.”

Grasping her arm, he turned and walked her into the house. “It can be difficult to get a leg up, so maybe his pissy attitude is a result of struggling to make ends meet.”

Mom appeared to have forgotten her neurosis. “It is not difficult to get ahead, if a person is willing to work hard. Especially if that person is a thirty-year-old white male, with no disability of any kind except pure laziness.”

“Are you a feminist, Jane?”

Mom pulled her arm away from him. “I’m a hardworking professional woman who’s got no time for labels and bullshit.”

I’m still not sure why, but that struck Lou as funny. He laughed out loud, grabbed Mom’s arm again and walked her into a wide living room with soaring ceilings and quite a few expensive-looking antiques. Steve’s town house is beautiful, if a person is into the museum look.

The birthday boy was in the far corner, talking to a man with snowy-white hair whose back was toward the room. Looking at Steve, dressed in one of his beautiful suits, his short black hair a bit messy and his large, slightly hairy hand curled around a highball glass, I got that strange jumpy feeling in the pit of my stomach that I always get when I’m around him. It’s not unpleasant at all—just unnerving. I’m afraid to put a name to the feeling because I’m fairly sure it would be something like intense, unquenched sexual desire. And as much as I like Steve, as much as I admire him and like being with him, I know it would spell disaster if I ever slept with him.

For one thing, any chance of ever making things work out with Ed would be over forever. And I wasn’t ready to give that up. Not yet. For another, Steve is the antithesis of the kind of men I always assumed moved around Washington. He’s a widower who lost his beloved wife, Lauren, to cancer almost three years ago, and since then, he hasn’t gone out with anyone. Until me. I can’t figure it out, but Steve seems to think I need to be the next Mrs. Santorelli. And that’s without ever sleeping with me. If I did sleep with him, I just know he’d manage to get me to marry him. Imagine my trust issues with a senator. Yeah, it would never work.

After I figured out he was the one who bought the billboard, I told him thank you for the offer, but no. He wasn’t surprised, he said, but he also wasn’t giving up.

When he caught sight of me he waved me over, and I left Mom with Lou, which she failed to notice because they were really getting into it about women in America while the bartender mixed her a whiskey sour.

I was almost to Steve when I realized the old man was Richard Harcourt, a retired Speaker of the House. Steve took my hand and folded it into his, then kissed my cheek and introduced me. “Richard, this is Whitney Pearl, but she goes by Pink. We met when she testified before the senate finance committee during the Marvel Energy investigation.”

Richard shook my hand and smiled warmly. “I watched it all on C-SPAN. You’re a true hero.” He dropped my hand, but continued smiling. “Interesting nickname you have. Lotta redheads get dubbed Red, but I’m not seeing why they call you Pink, especially with all that blond hair.”

“I’m a CPA, sir. Because my last name is Pearl, people started calling me Pink Pearl, like the erasers.”

“Ah, I see. Very clever, that! Mind if I call you Pink?”

I returned his smile. “Be my guest.”

“Good, and you should call me Richard.” He winked. “Or Very Handsome and Wonderful Old Man, if you prefer.”

I couldn’t help laughing, and decided I liked Richard Harcourt.

“Steve tells me you were in China for a couple of weeks just after the earthquake.”

Of late, it was my favorite subject and I admit, I got kinda wound up about it. When I was done, and after I’d made the case for people to donate money to CERF, Richard chuckled and said in a pseudowhisper, “You’re preaching to the choir, Pink. I wrote a check with a lot of zeroes on it just last week.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, and thank you.”

He lost a bit of his joviality and said, “Pretty damn good speech you’ve got there. I suggest you spin it to a few well-heeled people who’ve convinced themselves your boss should be the First Gentleman. Tell them their money’s better spent on the Chinese relief effort than a lost cause.”

“Sir?”

He harrumphed loudly. “Didn’t you know Madeline Davis is planning to run for president?”

“I hadn’t heard, no.” Why hadn’t Parker mentioned it? I glanced at Steve. “So a woman’s going to run for president, and she’s got some big money behind her. Imagine that.”

“Will you vote for her?”

“Well, she is a smart woman.” I turned again to Richard. “Who’s supporting her?”

“Top of the list is Bill Mulholland.” At my puzzled expression, he added, “Old New York family. Got money dating back to the Mayflower, no doubt. Sits on lots of corporate boards and hobnobs with royalty.”

“And you think I should call and ask him for a donation because you’re convinced any campaign money he gives to Madeline is wasted?” Maybe I didn’t like Richard so much. I drew myself up a bit. “You’ll pardon me, sir, if I decline to follow your suggestion. Insinuating that Madeline hasn’t a prayer of winning without knowing who else might run can only indicate a gender bias I obviously don’t support.”

Instead of taking up the gauntlet, Richard laughed as though I’d just told a great joke. He leaned close to Steve and said, “She’ll do, son. She’ll do just fine.”

Then he was gone, and miraculously, Steve and I were alone in the corner. But not for long. An entire flock of guests were descending on us from across the room. I quickly asked Steve, “What did he mean, I’ll do?”

He grinned at me. “Richard is convinced I should throw my hat in the ring for president. He says the first thing I need is a wife, and he thinks you’re just the ticket.”

I was speechless. Seriously. Maybe it was the whisper of the thought of becoming First Lady of the United States of America, or maybe it was the thought of sleeping with the leader of the free world on a nightly basis, or maybe it was thinking about living at the most primo address in the country.

“What’s wrong, Pink? Don’t you think you’re up to being First Lady?”

My mom’s neurosis can sometimes be mine, as well. “Steve, I’m a CPA from a dusty oil town in West Texas. I went to a public university. I don’t even have china. Come to think of it, after my apartment was broken into and ransacked last month, I don’t have any dishes at all.”

“The guy living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue right now is from your hometown. In fact, so is the First Lady. If you ask me, it’s sort of cosmic. And by the way, they have plenty of dishes at the White House.”

I didn’t have a chance to respond, because the gaggle of guests were upon us. The rest of the cocktail hour, Steve guided me around the room, introducing me to senators and representatives, high-ranking military personnel, the IRS commissioner and the Mexican ambassador. After that we went for dinner in a dining room large enough to land a plane, where I was seated next to Steve at the head of the table and Mom was seated next to Lou about half a mile down at the far end. I was excited when the Chinese ambassador, Mr. Wu, was seated just across the table from me.

Steve noticed my enthusiasm. He leaned close and said quietly, “Most men give flowers and jewelry. You get the Chinese ambassador.”

Startled, I looked into his dark Italian eyes. “You invited him just for me?”

He nodded and gave me a funny little crooked smile. “Now’s your chance to ask him about Mrs. Han and the China brides.”

That bizarre jumpy thing in my stomach morphed into a warm, intense feeling that was as foreign as Mr. Wu. I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

His smile kicked up a notch. “You’re welcome.” He turned to greet Mr. Wu, then introduced him to me.

Wu’s English was perfect and we talked a great deal about the relief effort. After a while, I felt comfortable enough to ask him about something that had bothered me while I was in China. “I helped a survivor there, a pregnant woman named Mrs. Han, whose husband was killed. She was naturally very distraught, but it struck me as odd that the main cause of her distress was that she wanted to go home. The woman looked Asian, but not Chinese, and she spoke very little Chinese. It turned out her primary language was Russian. She told a story about being taken out of Siberia and brought to China as a bride. She said there are others like her, living in China, brought there to be wives to Chinese men because there’s such a shortage of females. I wondered if this is something the government sponsors.”

Mr. Wu looked shocked. His soup spoon clattered against his plate. “This woman, where can I find her?”

China clattered from behind the ambassador. I glanced back to see one of the waitstaff, a striking blond woman whose name tag read “Olga.” When she noticed me watching her, she quickly turned and headed for the kitchen.

I redirected my attention to Mr. Wu. “Unfortunately, while I was looking for a policeman to help us, she disappeared, and I was unable to locate her again.”

“This is most disturbing. Did she give you any indication who brought her into China?”

I shook my head. “As I said, she didn’t speak Chinese, and the woman who translated knew only rudimentary Russian. After Mrs. Han disappeared, the CERF contact in Beijing, Robert Wang, said it’s not uncommon for people to be disoriented after something like an earthquake.” Remembering the poor woman, her tear-streaked face, swollen belly and woeful dark eyes, I felt a knot form in my throat. Where was she now? And what of the others? Mrs. Han said she’d been brought into China with five other young women from her village in Siberia.

Watching Mr. Wu process the idea, I said, “During my visits to China I’ve been proposed to several times by men in search of a bride. There’s obviously a need for women.”

He relaxed a bit, darted a glance at Steve, then leveled his gaze at mine. “It is true that the female-to-male ratio in China is shrinking, which leaves many of our young men without the opportunity to marry. It’s an unfortunate result of our law allowing only one child in a family. Because of our custom that parents live with their son in their later years, a couple who has a son is assured of a home. Those with a daughter do not have that option.”

“Because a daughter goes to live with her husband’s family?”

He nodded. “Many women abandon their baby girls at birth, then try again until they have a son. Despite this, the one-child law is good, because without it, there would not be enough natural resources to support the population. The side effect is the shortage of females. I suspect that an enterprising person has been recruiting women from outside of China to fill the gap.”

Olga returned and collected our soup bowls. When she asked Mr. Wu if he was done, I noticed her heavy accent. I thought she sounded Russian. Of course, to my West Texas ears, anyone from an Eastern bloc country would probably sound Russian. And I did have Russia on the brain.

“Thank you for alerting me to this problem, Miss Pearl,” Mr. Wu said. “First thing tomorrow, I will contact someone who can look into this unfortunate business.”

“If you hear any word on Mrs. Han, I would very much appreciate the information.”

Olga hurried off with the tray of dirty soup bowls, then reappeared with the salad course. She set a plate in front of Steve, then looked a little flustered and snatched it away. He shot her a confused look, to which she smiled and mumbled an apology. “I have forgotten the garnish. Please excuse me.” Before he could protest, she turned, still clutching the salad tray. She stumbled as she rounded the table and one of the salads slid off the tray and into my lap.

It took a bit to clean up the mess—this in the midst of Mr. Wu tut-tutting and Steve glowering at Olga, who looked ready to run away. Or burst into tears. Feeling for her, I hastened to assure her there was no harm done.

“But, miss, you’ve spots on your pretty pink dress. Please, come to the kitchen and I will clean?”

I didn’t see much point. The dress was destined for the dry cleaner. But Olga was beside herself, and Steve looked uncharacteristically annoyed, so I followed her to the kitchen. Just as I suspected, club soda didn’t faze raspberry vinaigrette. I thanked her anyway, assured her it was quite all right and escaped back to the table.

As I took my seat, I noticed Mr. Wu’s forehead was wrinkled in concentration, his gaze fixed on a spot somewhere behind my shoulder. “Sir,” I said, “my apologies if what I said has upset you.”

He looked at me and shook his head. “Nothing of the kind, Miss Pearl. I am glad to have the information.”

When Olga returned with a fresh set of salads and set his before him, he picked up his fork and started eating. He seemed upset, and even though I was relieved to know he would do something to investigate the China brides, I felt guilty for bringing it up.

He ran a finger along the inside of his collar as though it was too tight, then gave me a weak smile. “This earthquake is a bad, bad thing. So many homeless, and so many without families. It will take many years to recover fully. Thank you for helping my country.”

“You’re welcome, Ambassador Wu. I’m glad to be of any help, especially because I’m very fond of China and her people.”

After all the salads had been served, the conversation turned to other topics.

The ambassador’s attention was on the guest to his left, and Steve said under his breath, “You’re fantastic.”

“Not hardly. Just nosy.”

He smiled at someone down the table, then his gaze moved to my cleavage, then to my eyes. “Nice dress, Pink. Even with salad dressing.”

“Thank you.” My stomach started that weird jumpy thing again. Oh, man. My first bite of salad didn’t go down well, so I set aside the fork and concentrated on the wine.

“Now that the finance committee is adjourned for a while, I’ll have a lot more free time. You’ve been here two weeks and I’ve only been able to see you twice.”

“I’m pretty busy myself, Steve.” And I was about to be a lot busier, searching for the rotten dog who set me up. I wondered what Steve would think about it, and how he’d feel about marrying me if he knew I could potentially ruin all future political races. Even if I didn’t intend to marry him, I wanted us to be friends, and I prayed all over again that the culprit would be nailed before anyone else found out about it. Even being friends with Steve would be impossible if word got out about the bank account with my name on it, and five hundred thousand of CERF’s dollars deposited in it.

“Is something wrong?”

I gave him a reassuring smile. “Not at all. And you’re right, it will be nice to spend some time together.”

Olga appeared at my elbow and pointed at my plate. “The salad is wrong?”

“No, it’s fine,” I said, wishing the woman would leave off being so attentive. She looked like somebody who had just realized she’d boarded a plane to Cleveland instead of the one to Paris. “I’m just not very hungry.” Blame it on Steve, making my stomach do that squiggly thing.

Olga nodded and picked up my plate, then moved to the next guest.

As happens at all dinner parties, the ebb and flow of conversation created a dull roar, with no voice particularly audible. Until I heard Mom.

“You arrogant son of a bitch! You invited me and the IRS commissioner so you could get your own agenda front and center.”

“The only reason you’re so angry is that you know I’m right. Without people like you, CPAs on the front lines, standing up and demanding a simplified tax law, nothing will ever change. It’s your duty to do so, and your life is wasted if you shrug off the responsibility.”

“My life is a lot of things, buster, but it sure as hell isn’t wasted! I’m calling a cab because there’s no way I’m listening to any more of your bullshit. You’re crazy, Mr. Santorelli.”

I leaned forward a little bit and saw that she was no longer in her chair. Neither was Lou. Yet, I could hear her distinctive West Texas twang, along with Lou’s deep, clipped voice. Where were they?

Steve touched my shoulder and I turned to look at him. “This is a very old house and the ventilation system’s pretty rudimentary. I think they must have gone into the study, at the front of the house.” He glanced up at a register close to the ceiling of the dining room. “It’s like a P.A. system.”

Lou said, loud and clear, completely audible now because everyone in the room had fallen silent, “I’m probably crazy, but you should know I didn’t invite you because of the damn tax law. That was strictly shooting from the hip. We’ll discuss it later.”

“No, we won’t. I’m calling a cab. Where the hell’s the phone?”

“You’re not leaving, Jane.”

“Oh, no? Hide and watch me. Now get out of my way.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by the distinct sound of a slap. “Who said you could kiss me? Oh, my God! I have got to get out of here. If you don’t step aside I’m gonna scream, and won’t that be embarrassing for you!”

“I’m never embarrassed.”

“Yes, I can see how that might be. You’re too arrogant to be embarrassed.”

Ignoring the chuckles around the room, I rose from the table, intent on saving Mom from what would surely be the most embarrassing moment of her life, but before I could step away from my chair, Mr. Wu made a strange noise. I looked across the table and saw that his face was bright red and he was sweating profusely.

“Sir, are you okay?” I asked, moving around the table toward him.

Steve stood, calling for a towel from one of the waiters, while I loosened the ambassador’s tie.

“I…can’t…breathe,” he croaked, clawing at his throat.

“He’s choking!” someone yelled.

Hauling the man to his feet, Steve moved behind him and performed the Heimlich, but when Mr. Wu vomited it became apparent he wasn’t choking.

“Is he having a heart attack?” someone asked.

An attractive woman hurried toward us, shooing people out of her way. “I’m a nurse. Let me see.” She took one look at him and said, “Get him to the couch, and somebody call an ambulance.”

Steve and one of the generals carried the heavyset man into the living room and laid him on the couch, where he promptly threw up again. Dinner forgotten, the entire party crowded around the couch, anxiously watching. I noticed that Mom and Lou were there, but with everyone’s attention on the ambassador, they didn’t realize how public their private conversation had been.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and when I turned, Olga was gesturing me toward the kitchen. Evidently I had a phone call. As if I cared right now! But recalling her persistence in cleaning the salad dressing, I followed her to the kitchen. As I reached for the wall phone, I wondered who would call me at Steve’s. I said hello over the noise of the waitstaff, the cooks, water running and dishes clinking together.

“What do you want?” I heard Taylor Bunch say on the other end of the line.

“Shouldn’t I be asking that question? You called me.”

“Pink, what are you up to? I didn’t call. You did. So what’s this about? If you’re calling to apologize for this afternoon, save your breath. You’re going down, sister, and soon. When I got home from the office, I found a package on my doorstep that’s gonna put you away for the rest of your natural life.”

Thoroughly confused, I stared at a stack of plates. “Taylor, I’m at a dinner party, and I didn’t call you.”

“Well, somebody did. Told me to hang on, and here you are.”

I glanced over my shoulder but didn’t see Olga, or anyone else who looked out of the ordinary. The kitchen was a hive of activity and frantic chatter about the ambassador, and no one appeared to notice me. Turning back to the stack of plates, I asked, “What was in the package?”

“Everything I need to prove you ripped off CERF. I’m about to call Parker. Then I’m calling the police. Maybe the FBI.”

“I don’t know what you’ve got, or where it came from, but if it points to me, it’s fake. I didn’t do it, Taylor.”

“Yeah, well, tell the judge.” She hung up.

I returned the phone to its cradle, my mind leaping ahead, wondering what on earth Taylor could have that would hang me. And who had left it on her doorstep. Things were quickly spiraling out of control and I suddenly panicked. I felt an overwhelming need to see Taylor, to find out what she had, to talk her out of calling Parker, or the police.

Turning to leave the kitchen, I noticed Olga as she slipped out the back door. She wore a light jacket over her uniform and had a backpack slung over her shoulder, and an alarm went off inside me. I asked the waiter closest to me, “Why is Olga leaving?”

He looked confused. “Who’s Olga?”

“One of the waitstaff.”

“She’s not with us. Must be a regular of the senator’s household help.”

She wasn’t with the household staff. Steve had a housekeeper named Carla and a driver named Bill and that was it.

One of the catering staff rushed into the kitchen to announce that Mr. Wu was dead, probably from poisoning. I gasped.

My gaze went to the door where Olga had disappeared. Could she have had something to do with his death? Was that what the whole salad thing was about—she’d given Steve the wrong salad?

The thought made me breathless with terror.

I glanced at the telephone. Olga had to be the one who called Taylor, then brought me to the phone. Why? What did that have to do with Ambassador Wu?

My mind raced with possibilities, and it occurred to me that the quickest way to get answers was to ask Olga.

Not stopping to explain, or even to grab my handbag from the dining room, I took off after her, through the back door, through the garden gate and into the alleyway behind the row of houses along Steve’s street.

Running has never been my strong suit and my strappy high heels took my pathetic athletic ability to new lows. Taking them off on the rough ground would slow me even more, so I hauled it as best I could out into a side street, looking both ways. I caught a glimpse of a dove gray jacket turning the corner. I ran after Olga, my mind churning through what had happened, and no matter how I sliced it, I kept coming back to wondering if I was supposed to be Olga’s hit. Had my discovery that morning marked me as a dead woman?

I thought of the salad, of how disappointed Olga was when I failed to eat it. Had my salad also been poisoned? If so, it was no wonder that Olga had been upset. Someone had sent her to off me, and I had to go and be goofy over Steve, killing any desire to eat. I sent a quick thank-you to God for making me crush on Steve Santorelli.

Two blocks later, I had to admit defeat. Olga had vanished. Probably just as well, I decided, if the woman was out to kill me. Nobody but a fool chases death.

I kept walking until I came to a major thoroughfare, where I hailed a cab and gave him Taylor’s address. I knew she lived in a condo complex a block over from my loft, because I’d seen her leaving a couple of times when I passed the building on my way to work. When we arrived I realized I had no money, which naturally annoyed the cabbie to no end.

“Look,” I said, trying to mollify him, “if you’ll just wait here, I’ll be right back with some money.”

“Do I look stupid, lady?”

Taking in his hairy face and hard eyes, I shook my head. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Hurry up about it, will ya? The meter’s gonna keep running.”

In the lobby, I signed the guest book, but when I explained that I had no purse and no ID, the security guard waved me on, barely looking at me as he read a magazine.

At Taylor’s door, I sucked in a breath of courage, raised my fist and knocked.

“Come in!”

I reached for the knob, opened the door and was instantly hit with a sense of seriously bad karma. I’m not psychic or anything like that. I just get this bizarre feeling of impending doom sometimes, and it never fails to pan out.

Inside, it was gloomy, with only one lamp lit in the far corner of the living area. The wooden blinds were closed, blocking any light from the city outside. “Taylor? Where are you?” It felt strange walking into someone’s home without that person there to greet me. Strange, hell. My hair was standing on end.

She didn’t answer, so I went toward the only other light, streaming through the doorway to the kitchen.

I found Taylor. On the kitchen floor. With a telephone cord around her neck. Her wide green eyes stared up at me without blinking. Maybe I wasn’t a fan of Taylor’s, but Jesus, I didn’t want her to die. I felt sick to my stomach seeing her there, so twisted and dead, a look of startled fear frozen on her face.

It hit me then. If Taylor was dead, who had called out for me to come in? The voice had been muffled and indistinguishable.

I turned quickly, just in time to see the front door closing. I booked to the door, jerked it open and saw the sleeve of a dove gray jacket just before the fire-exit door slammed shut. I nearly fell several times rushing down the concrete steps in my heels, but I didn’t want to stop long enough to take them off. Maybe I should have. By the time I reached the ground floor, the outside exit door was closed. I ran outside, into the alley, but it was pitch dark and I knew it was way past stupid to continue any farther.

Unfortunately, the damned exit door locked behind me and I couldn’t get back in. I had no choice but to walk down the alley, in the dark, and hope I made it to the street alive.

For approximately one nanosecond, I considered jumping in the still-waiting cab and gettin’ the hell outta Dodge. But I knew it would bite me in the ass later. I’d signed in at the front desk. I’d probably left something in Taylor’s apartment, like a hair, or carpet fibers from Steve’s house. Hey, I watch CSI. I know about those things.

There also was that pesky problem with the Kansas bank account, and all those people who saw the catfight between Taylor and me that afternoon.

Running from the problem would not make it go away. It would only make me look more guilty. Deciding to face it head-on and be completely honest, I made my way around to the street side of Taylor’s building, winded and pissed off because I hadn’t caught Olga. At the security guard’s desk, breathing heavily, I said, “You need to call the police. I went up to see Taylor Bunch and she’s dead. Whoever killed her ran out the fire exit in back.”

Naturally, Mr. Macho didn’t believe me. He had to go up and see her dead body for himself. As soon as the elevator door closed, I looked at his guest book to see who’d signed in within the past three hours. There were only two names. Mine, and somebody named J. Smith. Yeah, right. No doubt it was “J. Smith” I’d just chased down the stairs. I used the security guard’s phone and called the cops.

They arrived quickly and we all went upstairs to Taylor’s apartment, where we found the security guard wandering around, looking in closets and under the bed. Clearly, he hadn’t gotten it when I said the killer ran out the fire exit.

The two uniformed officers told him to go downstairs, said that they would question him later, then asked me to have a seat in the kitchen, which seemed odd to me since Taylor was there. It unnerved me, her body lying so close, her eyes staring up at me.

“Tell me what happened,” the taller of the two said as he took the chair opposite mine and the shorter one went off somewhere else in the apartment.

I’d already given some thought to what I would say, and it seemed to me that being honest was the best way to go. Start lying and I was bound to trip myself up. As briefly as possible, I told him.

He wrote it all down, then had me read it over and sign it. Several minutes later, a middle-aged, ordinary-looking man in a dull brown suit came in and walked around Taylor’s body, checking her out before he sat across from me.

“I’m Detective Schumski. I know you’ve already given your statement, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

He stared at me as I spoke, without asking any questions. When I was done, he got up and left the room, then came back and said, “Did you leave a cab driver downstairs without paying him?”

“I told you, I was chasing Olga and didn’t take the time to get my purse before I left.” I glanced at the entry to the kitchen. “Is he still there?”

“I paid him. You owe the city thirty-two bucks.”

“Thank you.”

He gave me another hard stare. “I’m taking you in, Miss Pearl. There are way too many questions I need answered, and there’s a dead foreign dignitary across town. Until I have a better handle on what went on tonight, you’ll be a guest of the city.”

So I went downstairs and rode to the police station in the back of a squad car. Once there, I sat around and waited aeons before Schumski and another detective came in and asked a thousand more questions. Not only did they have the deposit and check copies from the office, the ones I’d handed over to Taylor and she’d conveniently taken home, but they also had the contents of Taylor’s surprise package—multiple Valikov Interiors invoices made out to me, covering three hundred thousand dollars’worth of Chinese antiques and furniture. For ten thousand bucks, an antique fish pot with a wooden stand, and three pairs of Chinese wedding shoes, the tiny kind women wore when their feet were bound. A real bargain at twenty-two thousand dollars was a jade horse from the Yuan Dynasty. All of the invoices were for similar items, equally pricey.

I said to Schumski, “Why would a person embezzle money, then spend all of it on this kind of stuff? It seems to me a person would buy things like cars, or go on a trip, or maybe blow it on some expensive jewelry.”

He glanced at his partner. “You tell me, Ms. Pearl. Maybe you have a thing for Chinese antiques.”

“Detective, I am not behind this, and I didn’t murder Taylor. I’m being honest and forthright because I want you to find the woman who did do it. Besides, if I bought all of this stuff, where is it?”

“My guess would be that it’s in your home, either here or in Midland. That’s why we’re getting a search warrant for both places. We’re also going to get the signature card from that bank in Kansas, and I’ll bet it’s a spot-on match with yours.”

He was wrong about that. The signature card had to be my ace in the hole. I would have to remember signing a signature card. I’d hire the best handwriting expert in the country to prove it. I was not going to prison. Period.

Nevertheless, thinking of all the circumstantial evidence against me, including the phone call and the catfight, I felt my heart sink.

It sank further when Schumski implied I had something to do with Ambassador Wu’s death. After he spoke to the detective who’d been at Steve’s, he said I had the opportunity to put poison in the ambassador’s salad when I went to the kitchen.

“Why would I tell the man about the China brides, then kill him? That makes absolutely no sense at all.”

He didn’t see it that way, but he was stretching it to charge me with Ambassador Wu’s death, so he settled with suspicion of only one homicide, along with embezzlement and fraud.

A little while later, while I cooled my heels in the small interrogation room, they got statements from a couple of the CERF staff who’d seen Taylor and me shout at each other, and me warning her not to screw with me. They got a statement from Parker about what I’d found, and how I’d approached him about it and wanted to do my own investigation. Yeah, that didn’t look good. But the last nail in my coffin was when they matched my fingerprints to those on the Valikov Interiors invoices. I knew for certain then that someone had gone to an extraordinary amount of trouble to set me up, to use me as their scapegoat. I had no idea how my fingerprints had gotten on those invoices, but I was hell-bent on finding out.

I got to make one phone call and used it to call my attorney, Ed. After I told him I was in deep doo-doo, he sighed, like he couldn’t believe I was such a pain in his ass, and I decided I’d kill him if he said he wouldn’t help me. Luckily for Ed’s longevity, he said he’d be there as soon as he could get a flight out.

“Whatever happens, Pink, whatever they ask, or say to you, don’t say a word. Understand?”

Kinda late for that, wasn’t it? “I understand,” I said anyway. “Ed, I left Mom at a party hours ago. Would you call and tell her what happened? They won’t let me make any more calls.”

“Does she have her cell phone?”

“Uh, no. It wouldn’t fit in her purse. The party was at Santorelli’s.”

Dead silence. Then he said, “I’ll call.” And then, in a very cold voice, “Remember, say nothing.”

“I remember.”

But it was damn hard not to say anything at all, especially when they booked me for murder and embezzlement, took a mug shot, then locked me up in a room with a lot of extremely sorry-looking women. To be fair, I probably looked pretty lousy myself.

I sat there all night and ignored everyone. One chick tried to pick a fight with me, but I turned away and closed my eyes and she finally laid off.

It’s funny, the things we think of in times of major crisis. All that night, the only thing I could think about was Mrs. Han, and how much she wanted to go home, and how much I hoped that she’d gotten what she wanted. Maybe she was from Siberia, a very unwelcoming, cold place to live, but it was her home, and her people were there. I had people back in Midland, which was also somewhat unwelcoming—a long, dusty stretch of flatland, broken only by oil-lease roads and pumpjacks, covered with scrubby mesquite and cactus. I was determined to go back there, to be with my people. I vowed that I would, as soon as I found the bastard who framed me.