False Impressions (5 page)

And Theo—we’d dated about the same amount of time as Mayburn and Madeline. Right now, he’d told me, he simply couldn’t be in a relationship. Theo, an only child, had been close with his parents. But recently, some disturbing events had Theo questioning not only himself but everyone around him. I understood such issues well. I understood that Theo needed to hide to lick his wounds. Who knew what—or who—was important to him at this moment.

“How did you and Mayburn decide he would work on your case?” I asked to pull my thoughts away.

“I told John what was happening—he’s one of a handful of people I’ll talk to when I’m deeply upset.”

I wondered who the others were.

“And then John insisted he look into the matter,” she said.

“Because he knows how important the gallery is to you.”

She nodded.

“Talking about how he feels like a brother now, when I know he didn’t feel the same, makes me sound so cavalier with my relationship with him.”

“He was pretty hurt,” I said, then immediately regretted it. Mayburn would kill me if he’d heard me say that. “Actually he was just sorta hurt,” I said, reducing Mayburn’s pain factor.

“Of course,” she said, shaking her head back and forth. “He had bought a house he wanted us to live in.”

“The one in Lincoln Square.”

“Yes. And that’s when I knew we had different ideas about what our lives would be. I’m not a Lincoln Square kind of person.”

“I can see that.” Historically, Lincoln Square was a predominantly German neighborhood. Much of that heritage was preserved in bars like the Chicago Brauhaus and Huettenbar. The streets surrounding Lincoln Avenue, the main thoroughfare, were populated mostly with wood-frame, single family houses. Wonderful cafes from other regions, as well as cute boutiques and bookshops, now flourished there, too. Still, the hood was more “livable city” than “urban city.” Madeline Saga wasn’t the type to live there.

“I was so shocked that he didn’t understand the life he was planning would never be me,” Madeline said. “That fact surprised me so much, hurt me so much, I just broke up with him. Just like that. And now I’m shamed by my cruelty.”

I reached over the table. Now it was my turn to pat her hand. “Don’t worry about it. He’s wonderful. He’s got a girlfriend, the kids, and obviously he still thinks well of you since he wanted to do this job for you.”

She looked up at me, a considering expression on her face. “John had children?” she said, the words disclosing shock.

“No, no. He’s dating someone who has kids. She’s great. So don’t worry about him.”

“No,” she said. “I suppose not.”

She waved at a passing waiter who soon returned with another round of lychee martinis.

“Tell me about you, Isabel,” Madeline said. “How do you know John?”

I told her my fiancé had experienced “some problems.” The topic of Sam’s disappearance more than a year ago seemed a little much for our first night out, so I only disclosed that I’d met Mayburn through that situation. “Now we’re friends.”

“He is an excellent friend.”

I nodded.

“And where do you live, Isabel?”

“Old Town.” I told her about the three-flat condo building I lived in. I was on the top floor, which was a drag because of the stairs but also a joy because of the private roof deck.

“And this…” She gestured around the bar. “Is this the type of place you would go to with friends?”

“I grew up in Chicago. In the city. So I have an affinity for dive bars.”

“Dive bars!” she said, sounding delighted.

We talked about the city then, about how Chicago had changed so very much, had become, in some ways much more metropolitan, and yet it was still the same hard-working Midwest town it had always been.

Another round of lychee cocktails appeared.

Madeline beamed and thanked the waiter. “To Chicago.” She lifted her glass in a toast.

I did the same. “To Chicago,” I said, clinking her glass lightly, trying not to slosh the drink. The truth was,
I
was getting a little sloshed.

We both took a sip, then Madeline excused herself and left the table, heading toward the restroom. I sat and let myself just notice, as I’d watched Madeline do over the last hour or so.

I thought about Madeline. I was impressed with the way she was handling the forgery. I could tell it deeply distressed her, and yet despite that, she still allowed herself to enjoy her life when she could.

About five minutes passed, during which I contentedly sat. Then I began to look around the crowd. Madeline had said that many people from the art world—artists, managers, gallery owners, collectors, print makers, art writers—could be found there.

Another five minutes passed.

When the waitress came, I asked for a glass of water. I wanted to stay a little longer. I wasn’t quite ready to stop basking in the light that was Madeline’s attention when she shined it on you.

The water was delivered. More time passed. No Madeline. I looked at my phone—no texts or calls from her.

I got up and went to the restroom, but she wasn’t there, either. I walked around the club, scanning the crowd. It was small and quickly evident that she wasn’t to be found.

When I returned to our table, Muriel came up. “How was your night?”

“Delightful,” I answered. “I love your place. I wouldn’t have known about it if it wasn’t for Madeline.”

“Madeline,” Muriel repeated with a smile. “Isn’t she incredible?”

I nodded quickly. “She is.”

“She paid the bill,” Muriel said, “so stay and enjoy yourself as long as you want. Let us know if we can get anything for you.” She smiled beatifically.

It was only then I realized Madeline was gone.

7

A
s I left the club, two doormen stood there, both huge, dressed in shearling coats and hats.

“Hi guys,” I said. “Did you see a woman leave here recently?”

“Uh, yeah,” one said, and I could tell he wanted to add,
duh.

Muriel had said she didn’t know why Madeline left, but that nothing had seemed odd. Madeline had told them to put everything on her tab, and that was that.

“She’s a Japanese woman,” I said to the bouncers.

Neither responded.

“She’s really beautiful,” I said.

“Lotta pretty women here,” the other bouncer said.

I thanked them and left, stepping onto the sidewalk. Like a dark painting, the canvas outside was mostly black. Steel charcoal-gray beams slashed back and forth overhead, carrying lit boxes—the El train carting people east and west. Aside from the train, the neighborhood was desolate, very few cars.

Suddenly I wondered if Madeline was sick. Could that be why she had left so quickly? I walked up the block, looking in alleys. No sign of her.

I walked back, past the club and down a few blocks, doing the same thing. I was thankful I didn’t find her throwing up in an alley, but I was still worried.

I pulled my phone out of my purse. I texted,
Hi, it’s Izzy. You okay?

I paced the sidewalk again, hoping for a reply. An occasional car passed. It had snowed a little since we were inside, and the tires from each car shot a little spray of slush onto the street.

I tried calling her. Nothing.

I tried again. This time I left a message.
Hi Madeline. Sounds like you left. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Can you call me?

I couldn’t shake what she had described—feeling like someone had been in her place.

One more round of pacing the sidewalk, then I decided it was time to go. I started searching for a cab but saw none.

I was making my way back to the club, to ask the doormen for help, when a sudden flurry of white and blue pulled to the curb. A Chicago police car.

The front door opened. A man stepped out. He wore a big gray jacket, bulky, not because he was fat but because he was wearing a bulletproof vest. You got used to the look in Chicago.

He turned to me. And I got a flash of a memory.

I opened my mouth. I could find only one word. “Vaughn.”

8

N
either of them noticed anyone but each other that night, not Madeline or the redhead.

For nearly two hours they talked, a friendship seeming to grow on the spot. How easy it was for Madeline to connect with people when she wanted. It was always about what
she
wanted.

They drank the martinis Madeline loved, their camaraderie, their growing interest in each other obvious.

Then the redhead was alone. She was looking around, apparently for Madeline, who had been gone from the table for quite a while. It was almost laughable. At least someone else was being treated badly by Madeline Saga, being ignored and made to feel as if they were nothing.

So, really, it wasn’t surprising that neither of the women had noticed someone watching them.

But the cop who had shown up? That had been a surprise. The redhead was walking up and down the street when the police car had arrived.

She and the cop talked, then the redhead got into the car. What had the woman done? And yet, the redhead hadn’t been handcuffed. Was she being taken in for some kind of questioning? Could this be about what was going on with Madeline’s art? What
was
going on here?

A short time ago, just inside the club, there had been amusement that someone else was being treated poorly by Madeline Saga. And yet now there was only fear, a sense of being out of control.

There was a measure of relief when the police car pulled away.

9

“T
his is my first time in the back of a cop car,” I said.

Vaughn had offered me a ride home. Since there was a dearth of cabs, I agreed. But I had to ride in the back. “Protocol,” he’d said.

From the front, I heard Vaughn scoff. “Seems like you would have seen a lot of that real estate back there.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” he said, “for all the trouble you find yourself in.”

“Excuse me?” I repeated. “I do not find trouble.” That was untrue, but I wasn’t about to admit anything to Detective Damon Vaughn.

Detective Vaughn had made my life hell a couple of times—first when Sam had disappeared and second when he’d suspected me of killing one of my friends. In a stroke of brilliant luck (or maybe just the gods in my universe doling out some karma) I’d gotten the chance to cross-examine him at a trial recently. And let’s just say it was the best cross of my career. We’d mended fences after that, even shared a couple of cocktails. But the fact remained that no one could irk me like Vaughn.

“Why do you always have to be so nasty?” I asked.

“I’m not. I’m just stating the truth. You get in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, fork you, I do not!” Again, I was shading the truth. Trouble did find me, but I didn’t usually bring it upon myself. At least, to my mind.

“You could have gotten into some trouble at that bar,” Vaughn pointed out. “That’s why I showed up there.”

“What do you mean?” I asked the back of Vaughn’s head as he turned the car on Franklin Street. His hair was shot through with gray, but he was one of those guys who had a lot of hair, probably always would.

“The owner is a buddy of mine,” Vaughn said. “He calls me when he’s got issues but doesn’t want to involve 911. He had an issue tonight.”

“What kind of issue?”

“Suspected prostitution.”

“Really? Yeah, I guess that’s a good way for a bar owner to get closed down—having girls making money that way.”

Vaughn stopped at a light, turned around. He had a rugged face and brown eyes. Those eyes were squinting at me. He shook his head. “
You’re
the girl he thought was trying to make money that way.”

“What?”

“He said that they had this girl walking up and down the street over and over, as if she was looking for someone. In general, that’s pretty indicative. That’s why they call it ‘street-walking.’”

“My friend was gone,” I said. “I was looking for her! She just disappeared without saying anything. She paid the bill, but I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t have let me know she was leaving. I was afraid she was sick or something.”

The light turned green and Vaughn shrugged, turned around and drove through it.

We remained quiet for a few blocks.

“Tell me what happened with your friend,” I heard Vaughn say.

I felt a shiver of relief for the help. I told him about the night. As I spoke, I took out my phone. Still no texts or calls from Madeline. “So what do you think?” I asked, when I’d finished.

Another shrug from Vaughn. “What’s she like?”

“Unique.” I told him what I knew of Madeline Saga, what I’d learned and noticed about her since I met her.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” he said.

“Really?”

“She probably got boozed up and took a header.”

“What’s a header?”

“When you realize you’re wasted and have to put yourself to bed, and you just leave because you don’t want people talking you out of it, and you’re in no shape to say goodbyes. It’s usually a guy thing.”

“She wasn’t wasted.”

“When are you supposed to see her next?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Call me if she’s doesn’t show.”

Eventually Vaughn turned up North Avenue, heading east, then turned left on Sedgwick and another left at my street, Eugenie. He pulled over to the curb and put the car in park.

“Well,” I said, “you certainly seem to know exactly where my house is.” I noticed immediately that a fair amount of sarcasm had come out with my words. What was it about Damon Vaughn that got under my skin?

He turned around, his face a snarl of irritability. “Listen, McNeil, I was at your house recently for a couple of break-ins. Remember? And, wait, oh yeah, a
murder.
”

He had a good point. My neighbor had been killed last year in my apartment, and Vaughn had soon been on the scene, taking care of it.

“So yeah, I remember where your place is,” he said. “I’m not an idiot.” He sounded not so much irritable now as he did hurt.

“I’m not saying you’re an idiot. I’m sorry if it sounded like that.”