Laura Lippman (18 page)

“Oh, be off before someone drops a house on you, too!” Tess muttered, pushing past the pickets to a small guardhouse that bisected the wide drive into Sterne Foods. An automatic fence separated her from the guard, and she hooked her fingers into the mesh, rattling it to get his attention.

“I’d like to see Gus Sterne,” she said.

“You got an appointment?” asked the guard, barely glancing up from the sports page.

“No, it’s a personal matter.”

The guard shook his head. “Uh-huh. That won’t work.”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, this crazy sports columnist, Robert Buchanan, he thinks the Texas Longhorns need more offense. He is so retarded. Where do they get these guys? I could write a better column.”

“About Gus Sterne—”

“Sorry. No one gets in unless they’re on the list. You want to see him, you have to call, get an appointment first, and show two forms of ID when you show up here. Fact is, he’s pretty busy right now, what with the festival and all the traveling he’s been doing. You won’t be able to get an appointment for a week, maybe two.”

Even as the guard spoke, a silver Lincoln Continental convertible was gliding down the hill. The gate began to slide open automatically and Tess jumped back, surprised by the sudden movement. The Lincoln was possibly the largest car she had ever seen. Brand-new, it would have been gross, the kind of stereotypical excess expected of Texans. But this car looked to be at least forty years old, which lent a certain dignity to its oversized proportions.

The same could be said of the broad-shouldered man behind the wheel, a man not much older than the car he drove. His shoulders were broad, his hair blond running to silver. As a young man, he had probably been handsome in a coarse, almost too-obvious way. Age had improved him.

One could only hope it would do the same for the young man in the passenger seat. His lines were as blurry as a second-generation photocopy. He hadn’t gotten his face yet, as Kitty might say. His profile was mushy, his shoulders narrow and round, and his posture was noodle-limp.

The gate was open all the way now, and the guard lifted his hand in a gesture that was halfway between a wave and a salute. The picketers seemed confused by the sight of the car—instinctively jumping out of the way, then drawing close again as it waited to make a left turn into the heavy traffic. The driver paid no attention to them at all, but the younger man scrunched down in the passenger seat until he almost disappeared. The Lincoln caught a break in the traffic and slid smoothly into it.

“Well, you got your wish,” the guard said.

“What?”

“You
saw
Gus Sterne. You just didn’t get to speak to him. And li’l Gus. Excuse me—Clay.” The guard grinned. “He’s a watery-looking kid, isn’t he? It’s like he came out of the oven before he was baked through. Clay’s a good name for him. Play-Doh would be better.”

“He’s young.”

“He’s
my
age,” the guard said, with a truly proprietary outrage, as if he owned the year in which he was born. “Twenty-two, just graduated from UT. I hear he wants to go back and study something like history, but Daddy says the only way he’ll pay for any more school is if he goes for an MBA, or a law degree. It’s pretty funny if you think about it. Gus Sterne has a foundation that sends all these poor kids to college, but he won’t let his own son go back. Poor baby. He wants to go be a history teacher, and his daddy’s making him run a multimillion-dollar business.”

“Everywhere I go, I hear Gus Sterne’s a pretty nice guy. Practically a saint.”

“He’s fine as bosses go. But you get used to making rules for other people, you start thinking you’re better than them, that you know best all the time. I could have had me one of those Sterne Scholar gigs, then I read the fine print. You wouldn’t believe all the requirements attached. Not only a B average, but you had to do volunteer work, too. Man, I’d rather work for the guy than take his charity. Fewer strings attached.”

Tess pulled out the photograph of Little Girl in Big Trouble, the one from the newspaper. “I’m looking for a girl, Gus Sterne’s cousin. Emmie Sterne. This is her. Blond, kind of small and frail looking.”

The guard shrugged. “I don’t remember her coming to the gate. But she looks like she’d have fit right in with that gang at the foot of the driveway, and I don’t pay them too much attention, long as they keep moving and don’t block the path of any cars.”

“Are they the reason security is so tight?”

“Big part of it. I think they’re all talk, but you never know. Meanwhile, no one gets in, unless Sterne’s secretary phones and tells me they’re okay.”

“What about the cops?”

“Even they don’t get in, unless I’m told it’s okay.”

“No, I mean, have they been here recently?”

“Some captain came by a month ago, but I think it was to go over the parade route. Like there’s anything to go over. We only have about twenty parades a year in this town, and they all go the same way. Down Broadway, past the Alamo. Hey, I get to work security for the All Soul parade. I’m gonna drive the car.”

“What car?”

“That sweet silver Lincoln you just saw. Pretty cool, huh? Too bad I can’t really open it up, but you gotta drive slow, so the boss and his son can do the big wave from the backseat.” He did a passably good imitation of a prom queen’s wave. “I’m going to wear mirrored sunglasses, and a little wire in my ear. I’m gonna be Secret Service, practically.”

Tess nodded absently. It had been silly to come here. If Emmie had decided to pull the prodigal daughter routine, Sterne Foods wouldn’t be the site of their tearful reunion, despite the surplus of fatted calves on the premises. To go home again, you have to go
home
. Hermosa Street, she had said. A handsome place, the shrine of Saint Gus, who had come to believe that he always knew best.

Which, in Tess’s experience, made him a very dangerous man indeed.

E
sskay was behind the bullet-proof glass in La Casita’s office, enjoying leftovers—it looked like she had the grease-soaked red and white remains of a KFC bucket in her mouth—while Mrs. Nguyen watched one of her Spanish-language soap operas.

“She cried,” Mrs. Nguyen said sheepishly. Tess assumed she was referring to some character on her soap opera,
El Corazon de la Noche
. But Mrs. Nguyen was nodding her head toward Esskay.

“Women complained, so I had to do something. Very strange, this dog. Doesn’t make a bow-wow sound. Sounds more like someone in pain.” She did such a good imitation of Esskay’s plaintive howl that the dog looked up, puzzled and intrigued. “
Everyone
complained, up and down the block. Man at the antiques store, and people at used bookstore, too.”

“Good job, Esskay,” Tess said. “In a motel full of hookers, you’re the one who gets busted for being too noisy.”

“Not hooker motel,” Mrs. Nguyen corrected swiftly. “Businesswomen. Like you.”

Tess started to object, but Mrs. Nguyen had a point. After all, she was working out of a room at La Casita, charging hourly rates. And providing her clients with far less satisfaction.

“If you like her company, feel free to let her out of the room anytime,” she told Mrs. Nguyen. “In fact, you can baby-sit her this evening. I’ve got to drive over to this house in Olmos Park, on Hermosa. You know the neighborhood?”

Mrs. Nguyen nodded her head in vigorous approval. “Rich.”

“Gated?” That would be a bitch and a half.

“No, no gates. But rich. Very rich.”

“Are the streets busy? Is there a lot of traffic?”

Mrs. Nguyen thought about this. “The street that goes straight through is very busy, but lots of the streets go round and round, go nowhere. Hermosa is one of those, not so busy.”

In other words, an impossible place to do surveillance, especially in a twelve-year-old Toyota with out-of-state tags. Tess sighed. Even in a nice car, it was difficult to keep vigil in a residential area. Rich people were quick to call the cops at the sight of anything out of the ordinary. She would have to think of some other way to watch the Sternes’ house for evidence of Emmie.

Not that she was particularly confident she would find her at the Sternes’. It was just the only place she could think of to look. Because when you really were in big trouble—big-time, get-a-lawyer, warm-up-the-electric-chair type trouble—the past would be forgiven, family feuds forgotten.

Crow’s in that kind of trouble
, some second-guessing voice in her head taunted her,
and he’s still keeping his family at arm’s length
. But perhaps this was the proof that Crow didn’t grasp just how much trouble he was in.

Mrs. Nguyen had turned her attention back to the television. Esskay appeared to be watching, too, studying the small figures moving across the screen with bright eyes and pricked ears, as if they were little Spanish-speaking rabbits.

“Do you understand Spanish?” Tess asked.

“A little.”

“Then why not watch the ones in English?”

“Because this way, I can make up my own story. My stories much better than theirs. See, this girl—her name is Maria—she’s having problems with her husband. She thinks he’s not in love with her anymore. But what she don’t know is, he lost all their money, and he don’t want to tell her, so he works a second job, to make the money back. He away every night, so she thinks he has a girlfriend. She cries boo-hoo-hoo.” Mrs. Nguyen’s fake crying sounded a lot like her imitation of Esskay’s barking. “And he thinks maybe he’s not the father of her baby, because she act so funny.”

One of La Casita’s businesswomen came in just then, dressed for success in what appeared to be a halter made out of a shower curtain. She greeted Mrs. Nguyen in Spanish, Mrs. Nguyen answered in Vietnamese as she handed over the key.
Mrs. Nguyen’s life was more interesting than any soap opera in any language
, Tess decided. Couldn’t she see that? Probably not. No one ever sees the drama of his or her own life. In our own heads, we were all normal and rational, doing things that made sense. Even Emmie Stern.

San Antonio’s October days were not only hotter than Baltimore’s, they seemed to last longer, too. The city must be farther west in its respective time zone, surmised Tess, ever the geography dunce of West Baltimore Middle School. Tonight, that suited her purpose. It was still light when she parked her car at a Stop ‘n’ Go on the boundary of Olmos Park, and the air had cooled a little. Perfect jogging weather. Too bad she had jumped rope and done fifty push-ups that morning, but she figured fast-walking wouldn’t be that taxing—depending on how long she had to do it. It was the only way she could think of to make repeated passes by the Sterne home without drawing too much attention to herself. The house sat near a long, curving road called Contour Drive, and Mrs. Nguyen had told her people often jogged there.

“Woman killed there once, in front of her baby,” she had warned Tess darkly. “It’s true! Chris Marrou said. Take your gun.” But Tess had decided packing a .38 while exercising would draw too much attention, even in Texas.

She walked east on Olmos Drive, then north toward Hermosa. The blocks were long and irregular here, it took more time than she would have liked, and ten minutes had gone by before she made her first pass by the house. In a neighborhood of big, beautiful houses, the Sterne home was perhaps the most impressive, a stone mansion with the kind of green lawn that only chemicals and a full-time gardener could have maintained. A new wing appeared to have been added fairly recently—the attached garage, connected to the house by an enclosed breezeway, was made of slightly different materials, although the addition blended in nicely. It also was constructed in such a way that one could come and go without being seen, Tess noticed. Emmie’s little Nissan could be parked in there right now.

She had slowed down, almost stopped, as she examined the Sterne homestead. That wouldn’t do. She sped up, turning onto Contour Drive.

She wondered if the police were ahead of her here, too, as they had been with Al Rojas and Marianna. The police wouldn’t need to pretend to fast-walk through the neighborhood, they could walk straight up to the door, ring the bell and demand a search if they had any reason to believe that Emmie was there. If she was, wouldn’t her uncle hand her over? After all, he was Mr. Good Citizen, so beloved that he was going to have his own parade. Emmie could run to him, but she probably couldn’t count on hiding with him.

Unless he was willing to keep her under wraps until he had his big day
. Maybe Gus Sterne didn’t want to ride down Broadway in his Lincoln Continental with people whispering about the latest Sterne scandal. He wouldn’t obstruct justice, but he might slow it down a little.

Tess was so caught up in her thoughts that she overshot the block where she needed to turn and circle back toward Hermosa. Now she was confused. This was no standard, rectangular grid, as she recalled from the map. Instead of doubling back, she continued on to the next street, Stanford—there was no discernible pattern to the names here—and headed up a street called El Prado, still lost enough in thought that she didn’t immediately register the silver Lincoln.

The car was ahead of her and, of course, moving much faster. But there couldn’t be two perfectly maintained silver Lincolns in the same neighborhood, not with a vanity license plate that read: BBQKNG. She kept her pace steady until it turned onto Hermosa, then decided to sprint. Runners often put on a burst of speed on at the end of their workouts, she reasoned, why not a fast-walker? She didn’t think she looked too suspicious—until she’ stopped abruptly at the edge of the Sternes’ property, where she hoped to catch the garage door going up, and a glimpse of Emmie’s car beyond it.

The garage door was still down, the Lincoln left in the drive. “Dammit,” she said, loud enough so a woman gardening across the street looked up at her. Tess bent over in what she hoped was a realistic-looking spasm of a pain, grabbing her leg as if it had just cramped up. With great show, she dragged herself to the curb and massaged her calf, all the time studying the Sterne house.

Was the Lincoln in the driveway because the garage was occupied? But they were rich people, they probably had many cars. Even as Tess watched, the garage door began to rise, revealing a glimpse of a Chevy Suburban and a small sports car. She didn’t recognize the make, but it clearly was not Emmie’s blue Nissan. The young blond man she had seen in the Lincoln convertible was coming down the drive, holding a plastic bottle of something bright green.

“Drink this,” he said. It was a sports drink, a brand Tess found particularly vile.

“Thanks, but I prefer water after a run.”

“You’re cramping up, right? This helps.”

What could she say? She took the bottle from him and forced down a swallow. Perhaps if she had been sweating, it wouldn’t have been so bad. As it was, it was like drinking an over-sweet limeade with a tablespoon of salt.

“Better?” he asked.

“Mmm.”

“So, are you going to keep circling our house, pretending to workout, or did you get to see what you wanted?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” She lifted her brows, trying to look as stupid as people sometimes assumed she was, what with the girlish braid and the overripe body that nature had given her to cart around. Sometimes she toyed with dying her hair blond, curious to see if people could condescend to her even more.

“I saw you outside the office today.”

“What office?”

Clay Sterne was young, but he couldn’t be fooled by the pretty little pout of consternation that Tess thought she did so well. “You were at Sterne Foods, about midafternoon. You were talking to Javier as we drove by. My father pointed you out to me.”

“Why?”

For some reason, Clay blushed. “He thought you looked…healthy. All things considered.”

“Healthy?”

“Robust.” Clay’s blush deepened. “I mean—he just thinks I should pay more attention to the world around me.”

Tess knew exactly what he meant. “Your father should be pointing out women closer to your own age.”

“Oh, it’s not like he would want me to go out with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” Tess echoed. She suddenly felt as if she were in some fifties melodrama, the one about the waitress from the wrong side of the tracks, knocked up by the ne’er-do-well scion.

“Well, you know, radical.”

How could someone project a political stance on someone after such a fleeting glimpse? Tess took the time to put herself in the passenger seat of the silver Lincoln, surveying the scene from Clay’s vantage point.

“You think I’m one of the
vegans
.”

“Aren’t you?” Eye contact was not Clay’s strong suit. He kept his head down, studying the grass. His blond hair was a shade darker than Emmie’s, although his pale skin had the same bluish cast. His eyes appeared more gray than blue, but that might have been the effect of his silver wire rims, or the twilight. He also had those heavy dark circles beneath his eyes.

Tess was sprawled on the ground, still playing the part of the injured runner. She struck her quad muscle with a balled-up fist. “You could probably build a muscle like this with beans and grain, but I didn’t. The only meats I don’t eat are sweetbreads and scrapple.”

“Scrapple?”

“If you don’t know, you don’t need to know.”

Clay Sterne’s smile was sweet, although he held it tight and close, the way a little old lady holds her purse on the street. “So if you’re not with them, why were you at the office today? Why are you here now?”

To her dismay, Tess found herself without a ready lie. Even if she had one, she might not have used it. For some reason, she would have felt guilty lying to this young man. Like his cousin, Clay made one want to tread carefully, to protect and coddle him. The young Sternes were so very fragile. Emmie knew it, and used it. Clay didn’t have a clue.

As she sat there, nonplussed, flexing her toes so her calf muscles winked on and off, Gus Sterne came out of the house and down the front walk.

“Supper’s almost on the table, Clayton.”

He was big, bigger than she had realized. Almost six-five, and large-boned, the thickness of middle age just beginning to settle at his waist. The extra ten or fifteen pounds were not unflattering, but Gus Sterne had refused to acknowledge them, so his dark green polo and khaki pants were just a fraction too tight. Frat boy going to seed.

“It’s the woman from the office,” Clay said to his father, in the manner of a little boy showing off an exotic butterfly he couldn’t wait to impale on a pin. “The one who was talking to Javier. But she’s not one of them. She eats meat.”

Her fake cramp forgotten, Tess jumped to her feet, brushing grass from her jogging shorts.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

Gus Sterne nodded. “My pleasure. Who are you?”

“Tess Monaghan.” Her voice scaled up, as if she wasn’t quite sure.

“Is there something I can do for you?” His voice was pleasant, but wary. Maybe he was worried this was an ambush and her vegan friends were about to rush him from the bushes across the street and drench him in blood.

“I’m a private investigator from out of town, working with a local attorney. We’re trying to find your niece, Emmie Sterne—”

“My cousin,” Sterne corrected. “Emmie is the daughter of my first cousin, Lollie Sterne. That makes her my first cousin, once removed. Very much removed. We’ve had no contact for five years, by her design.”

“But if she were in trouble—I mean, if she knew someone who was in trouble—”

“I think you had it right the first time,” Sterne said dryly. “You might as well know the police have already been here, Miss Monaghan, and told us all about Emmie’s latest adventure. A dead man at her godmother’s place, and the murder weapon discovered under her roommate’s bed. I wish I could say I was surprised.”

“Has she contacted you?”