Hell's Horizon (7 page)

I jotted down a few thoughts after my meeting with Nick. Apart from the Ziegler connection, there was the AA discrepancy to ponder. Why did Nic lie to me? Most probably she just didn’t want to admit she had a problem. A lot of people at AA meetings started out “without a problem” and were only there “at the insistence of…” (fill in the blank).

I made a note all the same—I’d need a new notebook soon if this kept up—then put it to one side and called Priscilla Perdue. No answer at home or on her cell phone, so I tried the beauty salon where she was an assistant manager. I had to brave the suspicion of a cautious secretary but finally I was put through.

“Priscilla. Sorry about the delay—journalists have been on my tail all day. How may I help?” She had a cute, squeaky voice.

“My name’s Al Jeery, Miss Perdue. I was a friend of Nic Hornyak’s. I was—”

“Al Jeery,” she interrupted, and I heard her tapping the back of her teeth with her tongue. “You were Nic’s little brown soldier.”

“Excuse me?”

She giggled. “Please don’t be offended. That’s how Nic described you. She said she was dating a big, brown, bulky soldier, with thick stubble for hair and the physique of an action doll. I was jealous.”

I didn’t know what to think about that, so I cleared my throat and said, “Miss Perdue, I’d like to discuss Nic with you. I’m running a private investigation into her—”

“Do you mind if we do this some other time?” she interrupted. “I’d rather talk about Nic outside of working hours. Doesn’t do to cry in front of the customers.”

“Of course. I’ll call after the funeral and—”

“You needn’t wait that long. I’ve been surrounded by well-wishers since news of the murder broke, but they’re all old friends and have nothing new to say. Are you free tonight?”

“Sure.”

“You have my address?” I had. “Pick me up, ten o’clock?”

“I don’t have a car,” I told her.

“That’s all right. We can use mine.”

I spent the intervening hours reading about Priscilla, preparing for our meeting. She came from a well-off family. Twenty-seven. Married for a couple of years when she was nineteen. Husband owned a chain of clothes boutiques. He was shot dead during a robbery. She got involved with his attorney, who ran off with most of her money, never to be seen again. No serious relationships since, but many short-term affairs.

The photos were few and poor, the most recent from the days of her marriage. I reported the lack of up-to-date material when handing the file back to the secretary on the seventeenth floor, from where it had come, as we were always meant to when encountering substandard data. My comments would be passed on and, within days, a team of operatives would be scanning newspapers and records, gathering photos, business transcripts, gossip tidbits, etc., updating and fleshing out her profile.

I went home to change. I hadn’t asked where we’d be going, so I didn’t know whether to dress formally. I played it safe and dressed smart-casual, tucking a tie into my pocket in case it was required.

She lived in an apartment block that put mine to shame. Couldn’t be doing too badly if she was able to maintain payments on a pad in a place like this.

I was about to buzz for her when she appeared, clad in blue, keys in her left hand. She was on the short side but otherwise as close to perfect as I’d seen in a long while. A model’s curves, wide blue eyes, round red lips, delicate cheekbones, and long blond hair that would have been any stylist’s delight.

“Al Jeery, I presume,” she said, eyes flicking over me.

“Miss Perdue.”

“Call me Priscilla. And I’ll call you Al.” She jangled the keys and smiled. “Race you to the car.” She sprinted past me, a strong stride. I had no option but to run to keep up.

She was slightly out of breath when we reached her car, an old BMW. I wasn’t.

“You’re in good shape,” she complimented me.

“For my age,” I modestly agreed.

We got in. She noticed my critical eye—the car was in poor shape.

“It’s a car like this or a cheaper apartment,” she explained.

“I thought you managed the salon.” Flattering her.

“Assistant manager. I do most of the work but my boss claims the profits. I make enough to keep me in style if I spend wisely. Unfortunately I’ve never had a head for money. It comes, it goes, and hardly any seems to be left over at the close of the weekend.”

She drove carefully, eyes glued to the road, not talking.

When she pulled up and I saw where we were—the Kool Kats Klub—I stiffened and a lot of the joy seeped out of the evening. Priscilla noted this and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

I subjected her to a level gaze. “Nice choice of venue,” I said sarcastically.

“The Kool Kats?” she laughed. “I come here all the time. What do you have against…?” She slapped her forehead and groaned. “How much dumber can I get? I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t think. We’ll leave.”

“No.” I forced a smile. She was testing me—she knew exactly what she was doing when she picked this place. “I’m fine.”

The Kool Kats Klub was better known as the Ku Klux Klub, the name it had originally opened under, until the clamoring of irate citizens forced the change. It was a nest for the racist rich. I’d been inside once with the Troops to apprehend a pedophile. The sympathy of the clientele, as I dragged the son of a bitch out, was firmly on the abuser’s side, even though they knew him for what he was.

It hadn’t changed much. All the walls painted white. White customers, white staff, even a couple of pure white cats that roamed the halls imperiously.

The receptionist’s nostrils flared when he spotted my black face bobbing into the lobby, and when he smiled it looked as if he were passing a kidney stone. “May I help you,
sir
?” he asked icily, hands fidgeting at the buttons of his waistcoat.

“I’m collecting for disabled Negro war veterans,” I said, just for his reaction. If his jaw had been detachable it would have dropped to the floor, sprouted legs and scuttled away in shock.

“Ignore him, Martin,” Priscilla said, taking my arm and giggling. “Mr. Jeery is my guest for the night. I trust he will be treated with respect.”

The receptionist focused on Priscilla and smiled shakily. “Miss Perdue. Of course. Any guest of yours is a guest of ours.” His eyes flared beadily over me. “Would you care to be seated anywhere in particular?”

“My usual table.”

He coughed, nodded sharply and led us to Priscilla’s “usual table,” which was situated in the center of the dining room.

“Miss Perdue,” the receptionist said once he’d seated us. He faced me and blanched. “
Sir
,” he added with a curt nod and hurried away.

“Thanks, Martin.” I tossed the smallest coin I could find after him. The clink as it hit the marble floor was the loudest sound in the restaurant.

Faces darkened as I was ogled by incredulous diners. Angry women whispered to their partners, who shook their heads, sneered, then deliberately turned their backs on me. A couple of boys shouted, “Look at the nigger!” and were quickly shushed by their mothers, who then quietly applauded them.

Priscilla acted as if nothing were wrong and I went along with the game, smiling vacuously, idly examining the decor, pretending to be one of the gang, perfectly at home, unaware of the arctic atmosphere.

“We seem to be creating something of a scandal,” Priscilla said as we were handed wine menus by a silently outraged waiter.

“That’s what we came for, wasn’t it?”

“Why, Al,” she gasped, eyes widening innocently. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You wanted to see what would happen when you threw Nic’s little brown soldier to the lions.”

“Al! I never—”

“Stick it up your ass,” I said pleasantly. “Let’s talk about Nic.”

“You may leave if you wish,” she said, eyes downcast.

“And miss a great meal? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She squinted at me, then nodded. “Tell me what you want to know.”

I asked about her friendship with Nic, how long they’d known each other, what sort of a life Nic had led, the men she’d dated, if she’d been in trouble lately.

They’d been best friends for years. Nic had led a full life. She’d lived fast and partied hard. There were lots of men, more than Priscilla had been able to keep up with. No trouble—everyone liked Nic.

“Is it possible one of her boyfriends grew jealous?” I asked.

“Maybe. She sometimes strung the poor dears along. I told her she shouldn’t, but Nic found it hard to let go of men. She was peculiar that way. But none of the boyfriends I knew would have done something like that.”

“Could you give me a few names?”

“I’d rather not,” she said plainly. “I told the police—I had to—but now my lips are sealed.” She leaned forward. “I thought you simply wanted to know more about Nic, because you were curious. But that isn’t it, is it?”

“I want to know who killed her.”

“We all
want
to know. But you plan to find out, right?” I made no reply but she read the answer in my face. “So you’re a detective too. A man of many talents.”

“I just want to make a few inquiries, help the cops if I can. A case like Nic’s is likely to slip between the cracks and never be solved. If I can uncover a suspect or some clues, I’ll pass them on to those in the know and maybe something will come of it.”

“Why not hire a real detective?”

A good question. I couldn’t tell Priscilla it was to appease The Cardinal, so I rubbed my fingers together and said, “Moola.”

“God, I know about that. So you’ve taken the task upon yourself. You’re either very brave or very stupid.”

“A bit of both. How about it, Priscilla? Will you give me a list of Nic’s old boyfriends?”

She shook her head. “I’m even less inclined to reveal their identities now that I know what you’re up to. I don’t like the idea of an amateur sleuth hounding my friends. No offense intended.”

“None taken.” Our drinks arrived, wine for Priscilla, a nonalcoholic cocktail for me. Mine had probably been spat in by every waiter in the building—twice by good old Martin—but I drank it anyway and made a show of enjoying it.

“How about a guy called Rudi Ziegler?” I asked, wiping around my lips with a napkin. “Know him?”

Priscilla hesitated, then, since I knew the name anyway, nodded. “A fortune-teller. Nic thought he was marvelous. She used to plead with me to accompany her to his séances or tarot readings or whatever it is he does.”

“You never went?”

“No. I don’t believe in such nonsense.”

“Nic did?”

“Absolutely. If it wasn’t Ziegler, it was Madam Ouspenkaya or Mister Merlin. Remember when
Time
ran an article about this city’s supernatural underbelly, how we have a higher proportion of mystics and crackpots than anywhere else?”

“I remember people talking about it, yeah.”

“They ran a list of names—hundreds—and Nic told me she knew practically seven out of every ten.”

“But Ziegler was special?” I asked hopefully.

She shrugged. “He was flavor of the month. She’d been hung up on others before him and there would have been others after.”

Priscilla was playing with her glass. Most of her fingers were adorned with rings, two or three to a finger. One on her left hand had a flat, round top, out of which jutted a diagram of the sun.

“Do you know anything about a brooch of Nic’s?” I asked, eyes on the ring. “There was a picture of the sun on it. She was wearing—”

“—It when she died,” Priscilla finished. “Yes. I heard. It was a present from Ziegler. I told Nick—her brother—about it when he called. And the police.”

“Think it means anything?”

“No. It was a worthless trinket. Apparently Ziegler hands out lots of similar jewelry to his clients.” She raised the hand with the sun ring and flashed it at me. “Nic got this from him too. She gave it to me because I said I liked it. I only started wearing it this morning. It reminds me of her.”

She lapsed into silence and twisted the ring a few times with the fingers of her other hand.

“Generosity was always one of Nic’s failings.” Her voice was close to breaking. “This ring’s a cheap bauble but she’d have given it to me even if it had been worth a king’s ransom.”

Another indignant waiter arrived to take our order. I’d meant to pick the most expensive dishes on the menu, but Priscilla’s sudden slide into sentiment had softened me. There was a cold edge to Priscilla Perdue—bringing me to the KKK had been a calculated act of provocation—but I had a feeling that she was warmer than she pretended. So I ordered a plain fish dish that wouldn’t leave her penniless.

We chatted about Nic some more. Priscilla had last seen her four days before the murder. Nic had been acting strangely all week, distant.

“You think she sensed what was coming?” I asked.

“Possibly. Or it may just have been one of her moods. She often fell into lengthy periods of sullen silence and went off by herself.”