“But how can that be all you know? Didn’t you see him hanging onto the gate?”
“I had passed out,” she said and was certain then, from the same eagerness in his eyes that she had seen in Christian’s yesterday at breakfast, that he knew everything that had happened to her. He’d already seen it.
“Passed out,” he said.
“Yes, passed out.”
In the hall, the sweeping had stopped. The cleaning woman sank against the wall and sighed, although it might have been Maud, herself, sighing.
Her shoulders ached. She rubbed at the base of her throat, trying to erase the spot they couldn’t stop looking at.
“It was a mistake,” Christian had said before she got up off the bench to throw up.
“What was a mistake?” she asked, but he didn’t answer.
“When I came to I had to piece together what happened,” she said.
“And you have, now, pieced things together,” Christopher Albrecht said.
“Yes, I have.”
Maud stroked the scratches on her hand.
“I pieced things together,” she said and stood up, looking at the officer. “I’d like to call my embassy now.”
The officer nodded.
“This is not finished,” Christopher Albrecht said, but uncertainty had crept into his voice.
Maud turned away.
In the hall, the cleaning woman took Maud’s arm and drew her close, whispering in her ear.
Maud nodded and followed the officer down the hall.
The sweeping began again, drowning out Christian’s whispering, his mouth so dry he could hardly speak, begging her for help as she’d loosened his fingers from the gate. By the time she picked up the phone to call the embassy, she couldn’t hear him anymore. He’d quietly floated away.
Mistress of the Mickey Finn
by Elaine Viets
“She cleaned me out. She took everything — even my towels.” Will Drickens’s nasal whine echoed off the marble floor in his Fort Lauderdale beach house.
The thirty-something hedge-funder pleaded for help with sad, puppy-dog eyes — at least, he tried to look sad. Private eye Helen Hawthorne saw a hound with skin tanned and oiled like a Coach bag. Will wore enough flashy designer labels to stock a mall. Phil Sagemont, Helen’s husband and partner, had trouble hiding his contempt for their new client.
When the trio made their introductions in the empty foyer, Will had slyly checked out Helen’s long legs and curves. She was glad they were safely upholstered in a sleek black Armani pantsuit. Phil, dressed in Florida formal — tan pants, navy polo, and boat shoes — got a dismissive glance from Drickens. Helen saw her husband’s eyes drift to Will’s bald spot. She knew Phil was proud of his thick, silvery hair, which he wore in a ponytail.
The two forty-something private eyes followed their unhappy client into his bare living room, painted a fashionable gray. “Look at this room! Not a thing in it.” Will’s reedy voice bounced off the hurricane windows and marble floors.
Big as a hotel ballroom, the living room had a dazzling view of the white sand beach and azure water.
“We get the point,” Phil said. “You could have just told us.” Helen gave her husband a quick nudge. Coronado Investigations needed the business.
Will’s whine drilled through the soothing sounds of the surf. “But it has more impact if you see it. My entire art gallery is gone! Look!”
They followed him down an interior hallway lined with hooks.
“What kind of art did you have?” Helen asked.
“The best. Six LeRoy Neimans. My favorite was Playboy — that’s a Playboy bunny. I also had Sinatra, Elvis; Four Jockeys, Surfer, and Sailboat. Great investments: Neiman’s dead, so he’s not making any more.”
He opened the door to a chamber big enough to stage a Broadway musical. “She stole my Vividus bed.”
“Your what?” Phil said.
“It’s probably the most expensive bed in the world,” Helen said. “It’s made from things like cashmere, silk, and lamb’s wool.”
“Sixty thousand bucks,” Will said. “Worth every penny.”
“I’d like to see that,” Phil said.
“So would I,” Will said, trying — and failing — to sound wistful. “I’m staying at the Ritz until my new furniture is delivered, and the bed isn’t the same. It’s been eight months now. The police aren’t taking me seriously. They took a report and fingerprinted my house — you can see the print powder everywhere — but I heard them snickering at me.”
“I can imagine,” Phil said.
Helen glared at him, but their clueless client had no idea Phil was subtly mocking him.
“Find any prints?” Helen asked.
“Nothing. She not only cleaned me out, she cleaned every surface in the place — even the handle on the toilet.”
They followed Will across the vast, mirrored room that reflected the ocean.
“At least she left the mirrors on the walls,” Phil said.
“And my copper tub,” Will said, leading them into the master bath. He patted the gleaming stand-alone bathtub that looked like a giant planter. “It’s an Archeo.” The name dropped with a loud thud and echoed off the tall glass windows.
“Most expensive bathtub in the world,” Helen said, partly for Phil’s benefit, but also to soothe their client. “Nearly seventy thousand dollars. I saw one in a decorating magazine.”
“You appreciate the finer things.” Will smiled for the first time. “So did Donna Simon.”
Helen leaned against the wall and Phil perched on the edge of the copper tub. “Tell us about this Donna,” he said.
“I thought she was the one,” Will said, as he sat on the other end of the copper tub. “I wanted to marry her. She was the perfect woman: long brown beauty-queen hair, legs up to her shoulders, and amazing...” He sketched two melon-sized shapes in the air.
“Brains?” Helen said.
“Yes, she was smart too,” Will said. “We were interested in the same things.”
Money, Helen thought.
“She asked me lots of questions about my art and furniture. Donna helped herself to my rugs, including my Mohtashem carpet — that cost ninety-five thousand bucks.”
Donna appreciated his finer things, all right, Helen thought. She’d spent her time with Will taking inventory.
Phil was tired of the furniture catalogue. “How did you meet this Donna?”
“I stopped by the Perfect Manhattan on Las Olas. Just for some conversation.”
Right, Helen thought. Conversation. The two words heard most often in that bar were “How much?” and the customers weren’t asking the price of the drinks. The Perfect Manhattan was known for “handcrafted cocktails” for the no-holds-barred singles set. Stunning supermodel bartenders displayed their implants as they “built” twenty-dollar manhattans and whispered, “Would you like a cherry?” with a suggestive wink and a giggle, straight out of an old-school men’s magazine. The servers — all women — were expensively enhanced and barely covered.
“Donna was sitting at the bar in a black dress and pink heels. She told me they were Manolo Blahniks. Sexy as hell — little tiny roses all over and straps halfway up her legs.”
“Cage sandals,” said Helen, who knew her shoes. “They cost twenty-two hundred dollars.”
“For one pair?” Phil said.
“Donna appreciates the best,” Will said. “I asked if I could buy her a drink, and the next thing I knew we were talking. She was easy to talk to.”
Your mother should have named you Mark, Helen thought. You were the easy one.