Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds (19 page)

When we crossed the Pennsylvania state line, he said, "You know that car Cooper left with us?"

"Flan's Jaguar? Yes."

"One of my guys took it back, and guess who met him in the driveway. A repo company."

"Flan's car was repossessed?"

"I guess he's so upset about his wife that he forgot to pay his bills. I wonder if the FBI knows."

Another nail in Flan's coffin, I thought. I said, "I'm sure they do."

"Have you been visited yet?"

"By the FBI? In a way, yes."

He glanced at me. "What does that mean?"

"We haven't been formally introduced," I replied, "but someone questioned me."

He stopped at a traffic signal, and I remembered Libby and her kegels. I began to laugh. In the glow of the dashboard lights, Michael looked at me and smiled as if he understood exactly what I was thinking.

We reached the bright lights of Atlantic City around nine and cruised past Bally's and the Trump Taj Mahal. When I got out of the car, I could smell the ocean. The hotels also pumped out the scents of exotic food, expensive perfumes and a fragrance I can only describe as cold hard cash. We left the car with a valet outside the entrance of the casino managed by Yale Bailey and followed the red carpet inside.

Michael seemed to know where to go. A horde of people rushed past us in the direction of the ballroom where a former sitcom star would perform later, according to the posters. We strolled among the slot machines, listening to the bedlam of bells, coins and Frank Sinatra singing about luck and ladies. Cigarette smoke was thick, and the average customer appeared to be a sixtyish woman wearing clothes that glittered. The hotel lobby—all crystal and water fountains and shiny marble—merged out of the slot machine area. There, the music was more subdued, the atmosphere expensive. A long check-in counter stretched before us, manned by a line of smiling assistant managers dressed like Thai banquet slaves.

Michael went over and spoke to a concierge—who wore a business suit, not a slave costume—and I thought I saw money slide between them. The concierge made a phone call while Michael chatted with a starry-eyed young woman behind the desk.

In a few minutes, we were given an okay from the other end of the telephone and the concierge escorted us to a key-operated elevator. Michael stopped outside the open car and kissed me quickly. "Be careful, all right?"

"Aren't you coming?"

"I'm feeling lucky," he said. "I'll go roll some dice. You'll handle Yale better without me, anyway."

The door closed between us. I smiled through the glass at Michael. He stayed where he was and watched me
whoosh
upwards. Until we couldn't see each other anymore, we smiled like two kids with a big secret.

At the top of the casino, the concierge and I stepped off the elevator into nearly total darkness. Only a small, lighted sign gave any indication we were still inside the building.

It read
YALE BAILEY, EXECUTIVE MANAGER.

We walked away from the elevator along a glass block wall and reached an expansive office that took
up the entire penthouse floor. No lamps or overhead light fixtures were turned on, but all the surfaces of metallic desks, sleek leather chairs and tall windows seemed to have electric moonlight gleaming on them. Tall windows overlooked the black ocean on one side and Bally's rooftop on the other. Brilliant lights gleamed from the other casino. The only artwork on the walls of Yale's office consisted of lurid posters for old vampire movies. Plenty of dripping blood.

A flick of movement on my right made me flinch. What I thought had been the glass block wall was actually a huge fish tank built to serpentine around the top floor. I had never seen an aquarium so large outside of a zoo. As I stepped back, a shark nosed out of the darkness and looked at me with its flat, black eye. It swam lazily past me, but I had the feeling I'd been earmarked for a light snack.

By more than the shark. Above my head, I glimpsed the glitter of a video camera's eye.

Yale Bailey came towards me out of the silvery darkness where he'd been in conference with a man and a very tall young woman. "Nora," he said. "Nora Blackbird. What a surprise."

"Hello, Yale. Thank you for seeing me."

We exchanged a quick, not-quite-friends kiss on the cheek, but also shook hands. Hard. I remembered how painfully he'd squeezed me at the Cooper party, too.

Yale countered his handshake with a bland smile. "It's a pleasure," he said.

He had grown up in New York, if I remembered correctly, and managed to infiltrate my social circle in Philadelphia by way of a Princeton classmate at first, then by virtue of his own persuasive personality. He attended a lot of charity events—at casino expense, I was sure—and over the last couple of
years had made his way through many women of my acquaintance. He had fiery red hair and lots of orange freckles, but he managed to turn those features into assets. He generally wore earth tones, and I noticed his clothing made a striking statement among the cold metal and glass surfaces of his office.

"You look great," he said, releasing my hand from that wincingly powerful grip. "I'm glad you came up."

"I can see you're busy." I indicated his associates and the desk where his computer glowed and various notebooks lay open for his study. A bank of television screens showed live video feed from around the casino. "I don't mean to interrupt you."

"I could use a break," he said. "Can I get you a drink? A glass of wine? Something stronger?"

"You're having coffee," I guessed by the cup on his desk. "That suits me, too."

"Coming right up. Tiff?"

The tall young woman obeyed him by going to a butler's tray near the shark tank. To the concierge who had delivered me and the man who'd been talking with Yale when I arrived, he said, "Why don't you fellows give me ten minutes with my friend?"

They gathered up their notebooks and departed for the elevator with such speed that I figured they were sent away often.

I could see Yale was curious about my visit, but he made polite conversation first. "How's your sister Emma? I haven't seen her since last spring."

"She's fine. She broke her arm earlier this year, but it's mending."

He looked sympathetic. "That's tough. She was just getting over the broken leg, right? Must make riding difficult."

"She's bought a horse of her own to train. I think she'll do fine."

"She's fine, all right." Talking more to himself than to me, he said, "I should give her a call."

The tall woman returned with a china cup and saucer for me. She had an exotic face with almond-shaped eyes and arching brows balanced by a wide, luscious mouth painted dusky purple. She wore a short-skirted business suit—no blouse, just cleavage—large gold hoop earrings and a pair of very expensive Italian spike-heeled shoes with no stockings. Very Wall Street meets Vegas. Her face was cold when she handed me the coffee.

At once, I saw the bruise on her wrist.

"Thank you," I said.

The young woman made a snorting noise I wasn't supposed to hear. She left the room very quickly, leaving me uncomfortable and Yale smiling.

"Don't mind Tiffany. Jealous type." He grinned. "Want to meet my pet?"

"Uh, sure."

"We can talk while I feed him."

I carried my coffee cup with me while Yale led the way to a small fish tank in the corner. It was teeming with large goldfish, their colors flitting beautifully in the odd light. Yale said, "Is this a social call, Nora?"

"Not exactly. I know this is strange," I said, watching him lift the glass lid from the fish tank. "I'm doing a favor for a friend, and I thought you could help."

If he was dismayed to hear I hadn't come looking for love, he hid it well, but I had made it clear from the moment I arrived that my visit was only business, and he had gotten the message. "Whatever you need," he said. With his left hand, he picked up a long-handled net.

"I used to be close to Flan Cooper, you know. We were together in college."

He glanced up from the fish. "I didn't know that."

"We're still good friends, you see. He's very upset about Laura."

"I'm sure." It was difficult to be sure in that strange silver light, but I thought his freckles looked brighter orange than before as he bent over the goldfish again. "I'm very sympathetic, Nora, but what does this have to do with me?"

"Flan's worried that the police will eventually decide he killed Laura."

He flicked the net into the tank and captured a wriggling fish, but nearly dropped it when my words sank in. "Killed her? I thought she drowned herself."

"That was everyone's first impression, but I think that ruling is going to change."

"Someone killed her," Yale said. Looking believably stunned, he stood for a long moment, holding the net in midair while the goldfish gasped. "That's hard to believe."

I wondered if his response was a performance or genuine shock. "Thing is, Yale, the first step is to piece together what happened during the party and afterwards. Has someone from the FBI talked to you already?"

He carried the goldfish across the room, indicating that I should follow. "Yeah, sure, a couple of days ago. But they never mentioned anything about murder."

"I wonder if you remember what happened after the party broke up. You're a Red Baron, right?"

"Yep."

"And you went out with the Red Barons after the party. You took your plane and went to dinner."

He nodded as he unlatched the lock on a much larger fish tank and climbed two steps to stand over the open water. "Yeah, we went to a place near Pittsburgh. It was a beautiful night for flying."

"Do you remember who went on the trip?"

He named the same group I had identified to Bloom, then added, "Flan Cooper didn't go. He was three sheets to the wind."

"What about Laura? Did she travel with one of you?'

"No," Yale said at once. "She got waylaid before we took off."

"Waylaid?"

"Yeah, she was having a talk with Mrs. Cooper."

"Doe?"

Yale waggled the net, and droplets fell into the large tank, disturbing the surface of the water. He watched the gasping goldfish without really seeing it. "They were going at it pretty good, so we left without Laura."

"Laura and Doe were arguing?"

Yale shrugged. "Something about ruining the party. Doe was steamed."

I raised my brows and let a question hang.

Yale grinned. "Okay, so I'd been with Laura earlier in the evening. We were just fooling around, nothing serious, but Flan came along and caught us. He blew up, did some shouting, and Doe—well, Doe was worried the other guests were grossed out. She took it out on Laura later on the patio, said we'd ruined the night."

"You heard their argument and decided not to take Laura on your plane?"

He looked up at me, still suspending the poor flopping goldfish over the water in the tank below. "Right."

"Did you happen to see her at the airstrip with anyone else?"

"To be honest, Nora, the only thing I really noticed
about Laura that night was the fight she had with you."

I tried not to look at the desperate little fish on Yale's net. "I see."

"Everybody heard her yelling. And we saw you chase her up the stairs. Even the FBI asked me about it."

I said, "Yale . . ."

"What is it, Nora?"

"The fish. It's dying."

"Oh, right!" He laughed. "You distracted me. Here you go, little buddy."

He dropped the goldfish into the tank and it plopped deep into the water. At first it was stunned. Then I saw it revive with a happy wriggle and begin to swim.

But out of the darkness came the shark. It whipped into sight, slashed its tail and snapped the goldfish into its jaws. Instantly, the goldfish disappeared. Devoured.

Yale smiled. "Spectacular, don't you think? I love watching this guy eat."

I put down the cup and saucer before I dropped it on the floor. I felt my head go light and the dark cloud of unconsciousness start to whirl around me. I fought down the faint. Yale had wanted to horrify me, and he'd done it. But I was also suddenly angry, and that made me bold. I said, "I heard you had been dating Laura Cooper before the party. Having an affair with her."

Yale climbed down from the open tank and shook his head. "Nora, do you know any woman I haven't been seen with one way or another? Besides you, that is. And believe me, I was just allowing you a decent period of time after your husband died."

I supposed that was meant to flatter, but I looked at him with loathing.

He twirled his empty net. "Sure, I saw her for a while. We had a few laughs. But it was a fling. We both understood it was a short-term thing."

"Could Laura have interpreted your relationship as a serious affair?"

He waggled his head. "That girl was a nutcase, but even she wouldn't have assumed we were anything more to each other than some afternoon fun. I guess she couldn't get what she wanted at home."