Stealing the Countess (29 page)

“That's just great, because I can't play anymore.”

“You can.”

“Not without the Countess.”

Duclos left the kitchen. Peyroux's body convulsed with anguish; the words she spoke were barely discernible.

“I love him so much,” she said. “This shouldn't be happening. What can I do? What can I do, McKenzie?”

I had a few thoughts, yet I kept them to myself.

“I should leave,” I said.

Peyroux pulled herself together; dabbing her eyes with the linen napkin she had taken from the counter when she had poured her coffee, and I thought, She's as strong as she looks.

“Are you married?” she asked me.

“I'm in a committed relationship.”

“That's not the same thing. It would still be easy for you to walk away.”

I doubt it,
my inner voice said.

“But when you're married,” Peyroux said. “When you're married, everything you think, everything you do is filtered through the prism that is your partner. A good day isn't complete until you tell him about it. A bad day can't be made better without his help. When he's happy, you're happy. When he's not, you're miserable. You never make plans without consulting him first. The simple act of buying clothes—will he like this color; is the skirt too short for him, not short enough? At night, you reach across the bed to touch him, reassure yourself that he's lying next to you. If he's not, you snap awake, your heart racing, until you realize, oh, he's in New York, he's in London; you'll talk to him tomorrow—can't wait to ask how did it go, did the other musicians play up to his standards, did he receive a standing ovation like usual, did he play an encore? ‘Shave and a haircut, two bits' always leaves them cheering. And you wonder—does he feel the same way you do? Sometimes the answer is no. He'll ask where are you, what are you doing, but not often; not as often as you like because he's so wrapped up in what he's doing, so devoted to his mistress the Countess Borromeo and you accept that, you live with that because that's the way he is, the way he was when you married him, and there's no changing him; you wouldn't change him even if you could, yet at the same time … You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you, McKenzie?”

“I think I do.”

“One day you should explain it to me, then, because—I don't want you to go to Philadelphia. I don't want you to search for the Countess at all. It's not worth it. Let it go.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“There's a dead man in Duluth and a wounded girl in my condo in Minneapolis. Someone has to answer for that.”

“Are you really that person?”

“'Fraid so.”

 

SIXTEEN

Trenton Mercer in New Jersey was the smallest airport I had ever seen. We had taken Frontier Airlines there, departing through the tail of an Airbus onto the tarmac. Baggage claim was an air-conditioned garage; the luggage was piled near the door while passengers waited against the far wall. I carried our bags to the parking lot; Heavenly held tight to her nylon carry-on. I didn't know if it still contained the $50,000. If so, the TSA agents in the Cities hadn't noticed. Perhaps they were distracted by the ounce of lead in Heavenly's shoulder. It set off first the X-ray imaging machine and then a couple of handheld metal detectors. I don't know how she explained the bullet—we had gone through security separately—yet when she finished, the agents were so solicitous, they arranged to drive her to the departure gate on a golf cart. It took me fifteen minutes to catch up.

There were more sheriff's deputies hanging outside the Trenton Mercer terminal than taxicabs. They recommended we catch a shuttle that eventually carried us to an off-site car rental agency. Heavenly signed for a blue Ford Focus under the name Caroline Kaminsky. She gave me the keys, saying she would navigate while I drove. A few minutes later, we were on Interstate 95. I didn't ask Heavenly where we were going or how we were getting there, yet it wasn't a matter of trust. I just didn't want to give her the satisfaction.

I-95 became the Delaware Expressway when we crossed the river into Pennsylvania. I followed it into Philadelphia. Heavenly told me to take the Independence Hall exit, so I did. She directed me to Callowhill to Sixth Street to Lombard to Tenth Street. The streets were very narrow, and most of them one way; cars were parked on either side, allowing room for only one lane of traffic, and I thought the Philly cops probably didn't get many high-speed chases in this part of town unless they were on bicycles.

Following Heavenly's instructions, I parked in the first empty space I found on a long block jammed with tall rowhouses that harkened back to the turn of the last century. Brothers played hoops in an asphalt park surrounded by a high cyclone fence across the street; there was a coffeehouse on the corner. I carried the bags half a block to our brownstone. I saw no other places to park.

“This part of town, parking spots are prime real estate,” Heavenly said. “You see an empty space, you take it. If you try to find something closer to your destination and don't, by the time you circle the block the space will be gone. Guaranteed.”

She climbed the concrete steps to the door of the brownstone and unlocked it with a six-digit code pressed into a keypad that she had apparently memorized. She held the door open for me. It locked behind us. There was a bowl of fresh fruit on a small table inside the dim entryway, positioned in front of a giant mural depicting Betsy Ross sewing the first American flag while General Washington played with a small child that I assumed was Betsy's daughter. Heavenly took an apple as if she had expected it to be there and led me past the mural to a narrow spiraling staircase. We climbed it to the top floor. There was another door with another keypad. Heavenly inputted the code—this one only four digits long. The door swung open. I stepped inside and set the bags on the floor of an ancient kitchen; at least it would have seemed ancient if not for the refrigerator, stove, microwave, coffeemaker, dishwasher, garbage disposal, pots, pans, and dishes.

“In case you're wondering, this is a bed-and-breakfast,” Heavenly said. “Only we will not meet our hosts. They will not meet us. Oh, and the breakfast is continental.” She opened the refrigerator door to reveal two small bottles of milk and various juices, pastry, bagels, English muffins, and fruit. She set the apple on the shelf and closed the door. “It's a far cry from the Queen Anne. On the other hand, Connor's food was far too rich. I bet I gained five pounds.”

“Bet you didn't.”

Heavenly stepped into the room beyond the kitchen. I followed and found a king-sized bed beneath an ornate canopy, a double bed enclosed on three sides by metalwork, a large armoire, a dresser with a marble top and mirror, a couple of tables and chairs, and a rocking chair. There was a tiny bathroom with a black-and-white tile floor and a walk-in shower. Light came from huge windows with a view of the street. Everything looked as if it had been built when the country was new.

Heavenly dropped her nylon bag on top of the king-sized bed.

“Dibs,” she said.

*   *   *

“Okay,” I said. “We're in Philly.”

“Specifically, the Bella Vista neighborhood in South Philadelphia,” Heavenly said. “In case you're thinking of sending Nina a postcard.”

We were sitting in the tiny courtyard behind the brownstone, surrounded by well-cared-for plants and drinking merlot from a bottle provided by the unseen owners of the B&B.

“Do we have a plan?” I asked.

“I don't know. Do we?”

“You seem to know your way around. I take it you've done business here before.”

“Last time, I recovered a Gibson Les Paul Black Beauty electric guitar that was stolen from Jimmy Page in 1970.”

“Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin?”

“The one and only.”

“No kidding? What did you get for that and who paid you?”

“I'll start answering your questions when you start answering mine.”

“We should get something to eat. How are the Philly cheesesteak sandwiches?”

“Here they just call 'em cheesesteaks, and they're about as ubiquitous as brats are in Minnesota and Wisconsin. There are a couple of joints in the neighborhood—Geno's and Pat's—that have been battling for cheesesteak supremacy since the beginning of time; Pat's King of Steaks claims to have invented them.”

“Who gets your vote?”

“One uses chopped steak, the other sliced. Beyond that I couldn't tell the difference.”

“Perhaps a more discerning palate is required.”

“There's an Italian restaurant called Luciano's; I've already made reservations.”

“Luciano like the mobster?”

“Close enough.”

*   *   *

Luciano's
was located in an old brick building constructed long before Lucky made a name for himself in the New York rackets. There was an old-world vibe to it with waitstaff dressed in white shirts, black slacks, and red vests and photographs hanging on the walls of Italian celebrities like Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Rocky Marciano, Tommy Lasorda, Al Martino, and Sergio Franchi, many of them signed. Plus, inexplicably, a painting of Theodore Roosevelt that greeted visitors as they entered. I asked the waitress about it, and she told me that Teddy had been a friend of the founder's.

I had the stuffed calamari and baked lasagna, and as I ate it, I added a new name to my Best List under Italian food. When Heavenly finished her rigatoni carbonara, she waved the waitress over.

“I called ahead for a special order of ricotta cannoli with chocolate chips to go,” she said.

The waitress nodded and waited while Heavenly slipped an envelope out from under her sling; apparently it had become more useful to her than a purse. The waitress took the envelope and disappeared. A few minutes later she reappeared toting a white carry-out container. She set the container in front of Heavenly.

“The check has been taken care of,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” the waitress said before retreating again. Heavenly stood. She hugged the container to her ribs with her good arm.

“Leave a nice tip,” she told me.

I did.

I caught up with Heavenly at the door and opened it for her. We walked the narrow street to the Ford Focus. I opened her car door; Heavenly slid inside, the carry-out container on her lap. I circled the car and settled behind the steering wheel. Heavenly looked over her shoulder, saw that there was no movement on the street, and opened the container. The summer sun was still shining, so I had no trouble seeing the two handguns.

“This comes out of what I owe you for the hospital and the Queen Anne,” she said.

“Call it even.”

Heavenly handed one of the guns to me—a black nine-millimeter SIG Sauer with an extra eight-round magazine.

“You're a SIG man, right?” she said.

I balanced it in my hand. I liked the weight, just shy of two pounds.

“Yes,” I said.

Heavenly picked up the second gun—a two-tone .40 Smith & Wesson. She ejected the fourteen-round mag, satisfied herself that it was fully loaded, slammed it back into the butt, and racked the slide. She slid the S&W into her sling and the extra mag into her bag.

“Think you have enough ammo there, sweetie?” I asked.

“If I get shot again, it won't be because I'm not shooting back.”

“On that encouraging note…”

“We're well-fed, heavily armed, and driving a car rented under a fictitious name. We should go clubbing.”

“Clubbing?”

“Music, dancing, women in tight dresses, men who haven't shaved for three days, exotic drinks with sexually suggestive names—you must have done something similar when you were young. You were young once, weren't you, McKenzie?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Tim Young doesn't have an office like El Cid. That's the plan, right? To talk to Doc Young? Only we're not going to find him. He's too paranoid. The best we can do is put the word out that we're looking and let him find us.”

“Where do we start?”

“He has people. One in particular.”

Heavenly pulled her oversized smartphone from her bag, drew a diagram with index finger, and started typing with her thumbs—she hated it when people talked to their phones as much as I did. A map came up. She stared at it for a moment and pointed straight ahead.

“That way.”

*   *   *

Heavenly could have been an office wonk based on her attire—loose-fitting slacks and a simple white dress shirt beneath a striped charcoal vest, because it hurt to wear anything that she needed to pull over her head, what she wore on the plane. Yet she managed to turn heads anyway, this in a club where nearly everyone else was emulating the latest fashion magazines. I watched her do it from where I was leaning against the bar and sipping a tap beer; it was her idea that I enter first so I could cover her in case it all went sideways. It was still early in the evening, and there were plenty of tables to be had; the band hadn't even begun its first set, so I had a nearly unobstructed view of the entrance. Apparently, many of the men and some of the women in the club did, too, because they all seemed to find her when Heavenly passed through the door. She wasn't even wearing a sling to attract attention. Instead, she held her arm stiff at her side as she drifted to the bar, sitting several stools away from me. Meanwhile, I was dressed in my standard uniform of loafers, jeans, polo shirt, and sports jacket. No one noticed me at all.

The bartender appeared; he smiled brightly and set a coaster in front of her.

“What can I serve you?” he asked.

“Vodka gimlet.”

“Any particular brand of vodka?”

“Surprise me.”

“Right away.”

The bartender turned to prepare the drink. Heavenly glanced my way. I gave her a chin nod.