Part 28 (1/2)

I moved on to other files. And came upon a crucifix with a doll's head, black plastic hair tied around Jesus' hands. That was the cross Nadia had kept over her bed.

Karen said, You've never done this before, have you? You've never done this before, have you? Her voice held cool amus.e.m.e.nt, no tenderness. Her voice held cool amus.e.m.e.nt, no tenderness.

Wherever she'd placed her camera, it wasn't quite close enough for good focus. I could tell Nadia was naked, but not what her face was registering. Her response to Karen was so soft that the mike didn't pick it up.

Why did you hustle me so hard after the show, then? Karen said. Karen said. Just out of curiosity Just out of curiosity.

A long tick of silence, except for the rustling of the bedclothes, and then Nadia said, You knew my sister. Alexandra. You knew my sister. Alexandra.

I meet a lot of people, Nadia.

In Michigan, at a music festival. Maybe she told you to call her Allie; that's her pet name at home.

Oh, yes. Beautiful girl, totally ashamed of herself. Are you the go-between? Is she ready to come out? Or did she tell you to use me for your own s.e.xual experiments? If so, try this.

It wasn't clear what Karen did next, but it hurt. Nadia gave a sharp yelp and sat up, wrapping a sheet around her shoulders.

Alexandra is dead. She was killed in Iraq. She was killed in Iraq.

Do you want me to stand at attention and play the ”Star-Spangled Banner”? Karen's cool tone didn't change. Karen's cool tone didn't change.

Do you have any feelings at all, for anyone besides yourself?

I figure chicks like you, emoting all over the place, have so many exhausting feelings that there isn't room for mine. Karen was being sarcastic, but I thought there was an undercurrent in her tone-anger? bitterness? Karen was being sarcastic, but I thought there was an undercurrent in her tone-anger? bitterness?

If you had a sister like Allie and she was murdered, you might not be so cold.

Karen sat up in bed so fast that the camera recorded only a blur. I heard the slap, hand on face. f.u.c.k you, b.i.t.c.h f.u.c.k you, b.i.t.c.h. I I had had someone like Allie who was murdered. So stop bleating at me like a sentimental sheep. someone like Allie who was murdered. So stop bleating at me like a sentimental sheep.

I hit PAUSE, startled. Did she mean Anton's daughter, Zina? Was that a person Karen/Frannie had felt close to? If that was the case, then maybe Zina's overdose had been someone else's deliberate work. Or maybe Karen/Frannie just thought an OD was an act of murder. Impossible to know.

I clicked PLAY, and the recording began again. Nadia was apologizing. But my sister was tormented, she was hounded, she wrote it in her journal. All because someone where she worked in Baghdad found out that she liked, she preferred-that women- But my sister was tormented, she was hounded, she wrote it in her journal. All because someone where she worked in Baghdad found out that she liked, she preferred-that women- That she was a d.y.k.e. Why can't you just say it? Why can't you just say it?

Don't use that word about Allie! Who told them? Was it you? Because you were so angry with her for not returning your calls?

Karen sat up and began pulling on clothes-sweater, jeans, boots.

Nadia, you want someone to be at fault because the sister you adored so much is dead. But if she was a lesbian, people in Baghdad would have known. Believe me, I did not say one word to one person about my week with her. She was of no interest to me once she made it clear that I was of no interest to her.

For once, Karen spoke in a real voice, someone who was feeling the words she was saying. Or at least someone who acted as though she felt them.

The clip ended there, abruptly, as had the segment with Vesta. There was no way of knowing whether Nadia, like Vesta, had realized Karen/ Frannie was recording her.

41.

A Clutch of Apartment Raiders, Plus Dogs.

Dinner was a success, at least for my guests. Petra had recovered from last night's trauma, aided by her military escort, and they, in turn, seemed to be thawing in her ebullience. My neighbor was beaming happily. Mr. Contreras wanted to see Petra settle down with ”some nice boy,” and Marty Jepson and Tim Radke both fit the bill.

I sat at the end of the table, smiling, nodding, wondering where Alexandra Guaman's journal was. I had played the video the Body Artist had recorded with Nadia three times. Alexandra felt so hounded and tormented that she wrote about it in her journal. Nadia had said that. Which meant Nadia had seen the journal. Which meant that whoever ransacked Nadia's apartment might have been looking for it.

”Julian Urbanke,” I suddenly said out loud.

Everyone at the table stared at me, until Petra said, ”Vic, there's no one with a name like that in my family, unless it's someone on the Warshawski side. Marty was asking who in my mom's family had been in the service.”

My aunt's ancestors had mostly been in the Confederate Army. I wondered how the veterans would react to that.

”Sorry,” I said. ”I was trying to remember the name of the man who lived across the hall from Nadia Guaman. Her apartment was ripped apart, the pictures even taken down from the walls. A couple of days after she died, someone took her computer and all her discs. Urbanke had a key to her apartment. He seemed to have had a crush on Nadia-maybe he helped himself to Alexandra's journal, thinking it was Nadia's, before the home-wrecking crew arrived.”

”What would you like us to do, ma'am?” Jepson asked.

”Marty, it's so funny to hear you call Vic 'ma'am.'” Petra laughed. ”She may be older than us, but she's not, like, a hundred. Just call her 'Vic,' like everybody else does.”

”Darling, I love the staff sergeant's impeccable manners,” I said. ”Who knows, maybe some of them will rub off on you and me.”

I looked at Jepson, who was staring straight ahead, blus.h.i.+ng.

”I'd like to go over to Urbanke's place,” I continued, ”see if he has the diary.”

Petra's eyes sparkled. ”All of us? A midnight raid-”

She stopped, remembering last night's fight. The muscles in her face tightened. ”Vic,” she said, ”why don't you just call and ask him.”

”Too easy to brush people off on the phone,” I said.

”You're not going to beat him up, are you?” She was pleating her napkin by now.

”Of course she ain't,” Mr. Contreras grumbled. ”If she had any sense, she'd stay right here.”

He turned to me. ”If it wasn't for these boys here riding to your rescue last night, you'd be dead and in the morgue right now.”

”I'm going to bring Peppy; if Urbanke tries to attack me, he'll trip over her and fall, and then she'll smooch him into confessing.” I stood too quickly for my abdomen and ended up clutching the edge of the table.

”Uh, ma'am?” Jepson said. ”I mean, Vic. I'd, uh, it would be a pleasure to visit this man Urbanke with you.”

Well, if he was going to put it like that, implying that the Marines had a sense of duty even if no one else understood it, then Mr. Contreras had to join in, which meant Tim Radke and Petra could hardly stay behind.

Petra bent over Mitch, hands on his jowls. ”You want to come, too, don't you, Mitch? Just in case.”

After Petra and Tim finished the was.h.i.+ng up, we laced up our winter boots and zipped up our coats and went back into the night, dogs and all. I wondered if any other detective on the planet had ever traveled with this kind of entourage. Sam Spade, with dogs, cousin, old man, and Marines-kind of like calling on a suspect with a circus parade in tow.

My fellow performers were full of enthusiasm. Jepson took me and the dogs in his truck; Tim Radke followed in my car with Petra and Mr. Contreras.

The heater in Jepson's pickup was as old as the shocks, and my feet turned numb as we bounced over ruts. I grabbed the edges of the seat, trying to minimize the jolts to my sore muscles.