Diamonds, page 11
I turn to him, my eyebrows furrowed. “Why did you speak for me?”
He sears his gaze into mine. “Because this is what you want, Alissa.” He gestures toward the concert hall. “You belong on that stage. You should be making music.”
“You haven’t even heard me play.”
“I don’t have to. I could tell just watching you listen to the symphony. You were living and breathing it in. This stuff is what you were put on earth to do.”
“I’m a perfectly good nurse.”
“And I would have been a perfectly good city councilman.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean it’s my calling. My calling is the shop. And your calling is music. I just know it.”
I look down, kicking softly at the floor. “I haven’t gotten the gig yet.”
“I know, baby. And even if you don’t, you’ll still have a stable job at the hospital. But tonight you were in the right place at the right time. That conductor guy recognized you, remembered your audition. That has to mean something, right? Feels kind of like fate to me.”
I scoff at that. Fate is meaningless.
If there were a just hand guiding all of humanity along a predestined path, we wouldn’t be going to a bloody mortuary right now to learn about what happened to May.
Everything is random. By chance.
I wouldn’t be here tonight if it weren’t for…
If it weren’t for Maddox.
Sweet, sweet Maddox.
The man whose shop I walked into one week ago, completely on a whim.
Because I wanted to do something different.
Wanted to leave my sterile, prepackaged world. The world my mother wanted me to live in.
The last seven days have been some of the best—and worst—of my life.
All because I took a chance.
I had no idea what I was signing up for when I walked into Maddox’s shop. When I descended the mirrored staircase into the technicolor world of Aces Underground.
But because of that, I now have a shot at performing with a world-class orchestra.
It probably won’t amount to anything, but I have a shot.
And if I, a silly little girl from Brixton, raised by an abusive mother and an absentee father, have a shot at this position? If I have a shot with Maddox Hathaway, the most beautiful man—inside and out—that I’ve ever met?
I might just have a shot at achieving justice for May, too.
17
MADDOX
Alissa throws her arms around me. “Thank you. Thank you.”
I break the embrace and caress her cheek. It’s like silk. “For what?”
“For…everything, Maddox. The good and the bad. Everything. But most recently, for bringing me here tonight. For insisting that we take a moment to appreciate something magnificent, despite all the malice we’ve witnessed since Sunday night. If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have a shot at that flute chair.”
I smile at her. “Of course, baby. I just want what’s best for you. And from what I’ve seen, you belong in this world.”
She frowns. “Plenty of people belong in this world, but this world doesn’t have a place for all of them.”
“But people who have the passion, the drive, they find a place. Even if it just means we come to Symphony Center more often.” I caress her cheek. “I saw a side of you tonight that really touched me. It really touched me because of how touched you were by what you were hearing.”
She reaches into her handbag, grabs another tissue. “My goodness, you’re going to make me cry again.”
I grab her hand. “Sorry, baby. That wasn’t my intent.”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s crying for a good reason. Just like when the finale of the symphony got me.”
“I’m happy we came. I really enjoyed it, too.” I check my watch. “But we’d better scoot. Bill has those updates for us.”
She nods and tosses her tissue into a nearby trash can. “Of course. You lead the way.”
I lace the fingers of my left hand into her right, and we walk out onto Michigan Avenue. Soon we’re back at my car in the Aces parking garage. The classical station is playing the same symphony we just heard, interspersed with a lecture by the CSO’s resident historian.
It’s interesting. Apparently, the symphony is based on the first Russian revolution in 1905. At least, that’s what Shostakovich told the Soviet cultural censors. Some historical scholars believe, however, that the symphony actually refers to the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, which was a direct result of the policies of the Soviet Union. Stalin was dead by then, and Khrushchev had taken charge, but the government still had a tight stranglehold on popular culture. Shostakovich only claimed the symphony was written in reference to a pre-Soviet event to get a message of defiance out to the Russian people. Fascinating stuff.
I’m actually getting into the lecture when we arrive at the mortuary, and I’m kind of bummed to flip the radio off.
But we have bigger fish to fry tonight.
If I’d thought this through, I would have suggested we take Alissa’s car to the symphony tonight, in case we had to stop here on the way home. My car sticks out like a damn sore thumb parked on the city streets.
Hopefully none of Rouge’s allies are passing through tonight.
Bill is standing outside the main door. I put the car into park, exit, and walk around it to open Alissa’s door.
She steps out right as a gust of wind cuts through the parking lot. She rubs her arms against the chill. “I should have worn a jacket tonight.”
“Christ, what am I thinking?” I take my own blazer off and hand it to her. “Here you go. Sorry. Should have given this to you sooner.”
“No apology necessary.” She wraps the jacket around her, buttoning it in the front. “Thank you. My knight in woolen armor saves the day again.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulder and we walk over to Bill.
He opens the door for us. “Come in, quick.”
Bill leads us to the same room where we met with him before. He reaches into a file cabinet with a manila folder. On its tab I see a question mark followed by a comma and the word May.
“Thank you for coming over,” Bill says. “I realize it’s a little late, but since you had no problem dragging me out of bed at three in the morning Sunday night, I figured I’d return the favor.”
I nod. “Fair enough.”
Bill takes a few sheets of paper out of the folder and spreads them neatly on one of the stainless-steel tables. “My initial impression was correct. Further examination of the deceased’s hyoid bone in her throat shows fracturing. That in tandem with the petechial hemorrhages present in her eyes and the coagulation of the blood around her neck indicate that she was strangled before the head was removed. At the very least, we know she was unconscious upon decapitation, so she didn’t feel anything.”
Alissa scoffs. “You mean, besides being strangled to death?”
Bill scratches his arm. “Well, yes. That would have likely been highly unpleasant. There is the possibility that she was attacked in her sleep.”
“Was she knocked out? Any drugs in her bloodstream?”
“I only have her head and hands to work with. But the few tests I ran showed no presence of any drugs, recreational or otherwise. Her lips and eyes had no discoloration besides that associated with the natural putrefaction process of the human body, so I think we can rule out poisoning.”
I nod. “Great. So were you able to confirm her identity?”
Bill frowns. “Unfortunately, dental records and DNA samples both came up with nothing. It seems this girl never went to a dentist appointment while she was here in the States.”
I tilt my head. “That can’t be. Rouge takes care of the medical expenses of all the employees under her care.”
“She at least claims to.” Bill shrugs. “Maybe she didn’t feel dental care was an essential medical service. I don’t know what to tell you, Maddox.”
Alissa slumps into a chair in the corner of the room. “So we’re no bloody closer to solving this than we were three days ago.”
“Not true,” I say. “We have a method. Maybe there’s something from there.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, perhaps we can ask Rouge if she prefers to strangle her victims or outright decapitate them. If she admits to the former, we’re all set.”
“You also have the name and origin country of the deceased,” Bill adds.
“We had that before she was murdered.” Alissa springs to her feet, pacing the area. “I’m sure there’s more than one May in the Vietnamese phonebook.”
I grab Alissa’s hand. “We might have one more lead.”
She faces me. “What else could we possibly have? You heard Bill. No dental records, no DNA…”
“That old lady from the symphony tonight. The one who tried to cut in front of us.”
Alissa scoffs. “Oh, that’s it. She did it. After all, she showed some real propensity for murder when she tried to snag that last brownie—”
“Baby, no. Not her. Her husband.”
She raises her eyebrows. “What?”
“When you noticed them as we left. I recognized her husband. He’s a member of Aces Underground.”
She sighs. “The symphony is probably rife with people who go to that damned club. Its patrons are among the richest of the rich in this city.”
“But this man, the husband. I remember seeing him the last night Svetlana—the Nine of Diamonds—worked at the club. May’s friend. He took her behind the velvet curtains.”
Alissa drops her jaw. “But he’s a married man!”
I stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Adultery isn’t terribly uncommon at Aces. A lot of men go there to get away from their wives.”
She sits down again. “Human rubbish, the lot of them.”
“On that we can agree.” I sit next to her. “But listen, that man could very well be one of the last people to see Svetlana alive, and now we know he’s a patron of the symphony.”
“That’s not a whole lot to go off of. Unless…” She widens her eyes and grabs her purse. “Didn’t that old bat say something about being a high-tiered donor?” She grabs the program from tonight out of her purse and flips to the end. “Companies like the CSO devote a solid seventy percent of their program to sucking up to their donors. The more you donate, the bigger your picture is in the booklet. If this man is important enough to have a membership at Aces, I bet he’s…” She flips through a few pages. “Joe and Frida Manx… Terri and Trixie Jubb…”—she points—“There they are.”
I look down. This couple must donate a lot, because they have a whole page to themselves. Their picture is old. They look at least fifteen years younger than the people I saw tonight. But it’s them, all right.
“Wade and Gyra Gimble,” I read.
Alissa pulls out her phone and taps on the screen. “I found the wife’s Facebook profile. It’s them.”
“Helps that their last name is kind of odd,” I say. “You don’t meet many Gimbles.”
“That you don’t,” Alissa says. “If we can find out where they live, we could talk to the husband. See if he has any information on Svetlana. If we can find something out about her, we might be able to tie this whole thing to Rouge and see that she’s brought to justice.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I stand, nodding to Bill. “Thanks for all your help.”
“Of course,” Bill says. “Am I correct in assuming that you don’t want the remains back?”
“Is there any chance of pulling any more information with what you have left?” I ask.
Bill shakes his head. “I have her DNA results. It’s all written down. Same with the dental records. If a match comes through, you’ll be my first call. But at this point, I’ve done all I can with what you gave me.”
I nod. “Then you can send her to a crematorium. I’ll take care of the costs.”
Bill takes out a clipboard and writes a few things down. “I’ll let you know when you can pick up the ashes.”
“Great. We’ll scatter them somewhere meaningful,” Alissa says.
I turn toward Alissa. “In the meantime, my girlfriend and I should be heading home. It’s getting late.”
“That it is.” Alissa stands up and the program in her lap flutters to the ground. “Oops! I definitely want to keep this.” She leans down and grabs it, opening her purse to put it back inside. Her eyes widen. “Hold on a second. What’s this?”
I take a few steps toward her. “What’s what, baby?”
She pulls out a small manila envelope—the kind you might use in a game of Clue. “This isn’t mine.”
“Did you leave your purse unattended? Maybe someone slipped it in by mistake.”
She shakes her head. “It was on my person the whole time. It’s been either on me or in my locker at work ever since”—she slaps her hands to her cheeks—“Sunday afternoon. The same day you got the riddle. That we found May. I… I was looking for Dinah, to help me translate the note. But then one of my patients flatlined and I ran to his room. All the nurses in the area were in the patient’s room as we brought him back. Anyone could have walked up and put this in there.”
“Give it to me,” I say.
“It’s just an envelope, Maddox. It can’t hurt me.”
“Still, if one of us is going to open it, I’d rather it be me.”
She hands it over. “Knock yourself out.”
I undo the metal fastener on the envelope and flip the top open. I empty the contents into my hand.
Two playing cards, with the Aces Underground logo on their back.
That’s weird.
I flip them around and my blood runs cold.
The Seven of Spades. And the Nine of Diamonds.
Both with a big black X through their numbers.
18
ALISSA
“Maddox, what is it?” I ask.
Maddox hands me the envelope, as well as two playing cards.
My heart leaps into my throat as I look at them.
The Seven of Spades—May’s assigned number at the club.
And the Nine of Diamonds—her friend Svetlana, who disappeared when her contract was up.
Both with their number crossed out in black ink.
I try to speak, but my breath catches in my throat.
This is another clue. A hint. May and Svetlana were both killed, most likely by Rouge Montrose or one of her muscles.
But… If this was left in my handbag Sunday afternoon…
It was before I had ever spoken to May.
I went to Aces after Dinah translated the note. I had left my credit card there, had to settle my tab. But I just used that as an excuse to get into the club. I wanted to check things out. See why May was asking for my help.
She hadn’t even broken the rules yet.
But unless this card was placed in my bag at another point—and I’m honestly not sure when else it could have happened—then it means that May was marked for death before I spoke to her.
My head hurts.
“Alissa.” Maddox runs his hand up my arm. “Alissa, baby. Talk to me.”
“I just… It’s not making sense.” I massage my temples as I try to process it all. “This would have been dropped in my bag before I went to the club, before I broke the rules.”
He widens his eyes. “Shit. So you think…”
“May wasn’t killed because she broke the rules.” I pace the room. “She was always going to be killed. Her decision to speak to me just gave Rouge a good excuse to explain away her so-called suspension.”
Maddox crosses his arms. “Unless this got placed in your bag after Sunday.”
“I suppose it’s a possibility.” I tap my fingers against my purse. “But I’m pretty good about keeping this safe. Women are protective over their handbags. And I—”
Bill clears his throat in the corner.
I’d forgotten he was here.
“I hate to usher you out,” he says. “But I’d really like to be getting home.”
Maddox nods. “Of course. Sorry, Bill. Mind if I take a leak before we go?”
Bill frowns. “Of course. Down the hall and to your right.”
“Great.” Maddox looks at me. “Do you need to go before we head out?”
I don’t. But I also don’t want to be alone in this room with Bill. He seems like a decent guy, but I get an uneasy feeling around him. It’s probably just his job. He’s around death all the time, after all. He’s an ally to the stiff and lifeless. I imagine it’s hard not to pick up a macabre vibe in his line of work.
“Yes. I’ll run to the loo myself.”
“Help yourself,” Bill says. “Ladies’ is right next to the men’s.”
“Thank you.” I place the cards and the envelope back in my purse and follow Maddox down the hall.
The hallway is long, and we pass several doors. One is cracked—the placard on its front reads William K. Lassard, M.D., Head Coroner.
Maddox stops at the door.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I…” He scratches his chin. “Do you get the feeling that we’re not getting the whole story from Bill?”
I swallow. “I get a weird feeling from him. But you were the one who said you trusted him implicitly.”
“I thought I did,” he says. “But remember Sunday night when I told him that we thought this involved Rouge? He clammed up, got sweaty.”
“You don’t think she’s threatening him? Getting him to cover for her?”
Maddox peers inside Bill’s office. “I’m just saying that some due diligence might be worthwhile. Will you keep watch while I look around?”
“Okay. But please be careful. And don’t rip the office apart. I don’t want Bill to think that we were snooping around.”
“Of course.” He gives me a quick kiss and then steals inside the office.
I fix my eyes down the hall where we came from. The doors leading to the room we were in with Bill aren’t moving.
But my heart races anyway. It’s late, but it’s entirely possible that Bill isn’t the only one here. If there’s another coroner working overtime, or even a cleaning crew—
