The inside was unfinished: raw bricks with mortar squeezing between them like cake filling. The mortar was grey and crumbly with damp and age. Spider webs smoothed all the corners. Bags of potting compost that looked about fifteen years old were piled against one wall. There was a lazy humming over my head—some kind of hornet nest. It was an ordinary garage. I wondered what I was supposed to see.
“When that woman came by and talked about you, Detective Nolan laughed and said, ‘Oh, Aud used to be one of us,’ and sent her away. But you know he had to have wondered.” I bet they’d all wondered. I knew my reputation. “He didn’t wonder long, though. Not after what we found in here.”
“So what did you find?”
“Coke. A lot. Six, seven keys.”
“Coke?”
“What with that and the professional torch, and the guy who died, he figured it for a drug hit. Revenge, or a lesson.”
It sounded plausible, until you stopped to think about it. “Recognize the torch?”
“Nope. Haven’t come across this one before.”
“Who died?”
“Name of Lusk. Jim Lusk. Some kind of art professor.”
“Any close relatives show up yet?”
“Nope.”
“He was found in the house?” He nodded. “And the coke was in here?”
“Right here.” He patted the shelf that ran the length of the garage. “Interesting, don’t you think?” It was, very. “I have to get back to work. Feel free to take a look around.” He grinned, a hard grin that said: You owe me a favor now.
I took a closer look at the shelf. Swollen with damp, pulling away from the wall at one end. Powdery holes and termite wings. A faint outline of white powder crisscrossed with silvery snail trails. It made absolutely no sense. No one in their right mind would store coke in a damp, insect-ridden garage. And if the torch had known the drug was here, he or she would have taken it.
I knew what Bertolucci wanted: someone outside to know that he knew the obvious explanation didn’t make sense. It would make him feel better when the APD accepted the obvious explanation and shelved the case. There was too much work to keep chasing after a murder that already had an explanation, even such a flimsy one. Politically, too, it made sense. Mayor Foley was fighting hard to get a special federal grant for the war on drugs. The APD, being smart enough to know that the war was unwinnable, would take the money and use it on something that might make a difference: five new cruisers, six months’ worth of ammunition, a week-long training course for half the SWAT teams. Jim Lusk’s death was just another ledger entry on the grant form, something to be used as a weapon in the increasingly bitter fight for money. The detective second grade who was in charge of the investigation would have four other homicides and dozens of assaults to deal with. His lieutenant would spend most of her time juggling meetings, writing duty rosters, dealing with an increasingly angry public. The precinct captain would be faced with a nightmare of budget stretching, trying to decide whether the squad room should have new terminals, which it needed, or that new air-conditioning system to replace the one that was responsible for the sick-building syndrome that meant officers on his precinct were overrunning their sick time and bringing down the wrath of the city accountants. Lusk’s killer would never be found.
But that wasn’t my concern. I wanted to know about the woman who thought this was something I had done, but I wasn’t in any particular hurry. Let her come to me.
I was halfway to the embassy when the car phone rang. It was Denneny. “Denneny. I was just thinking of you. Made that decision between the air-conditioning and the new terminals yet?”
“Terminals this month. Air-conditioning in June. I hear you were at the scene of the impromptu Inman Park barbecue last night. I thought we could observe the formalities and get a statement.”
“Do you have any plans for lunch?”
“Not so far.”
“How about Deacon’s at eleven-thirty?”
A very young man in button-down shirt and silk tie was waiting in the sunshine outside the consulate. He opened the Saab door for me smartly, and I handed over the leather key fob. He was practically salivating at the prospect of hopping inside.
“It has quadraphonic CD sound, too,” I said.
An uncertain blink, pink lower lip caught between his teeth. “Ma’am?”
I just smiled, and hoped he would have to drive around for a long time to find a parking place. He was probably some kind of admin intern who would be spending the next three months chained to a workstation freezing to death in the air-conditioning, all to pad out his résumé. I was willing to bet he’d never parked a car for anyone but his parents in his life. Consulates don’t usually provide valet parking. Most people don’t ask for it. I always ask for as much as I can get. It’s a matter of principle.
I hummed as I went through the heavy teak and glass doors. The carpet was a beautiful deep green. Much nicer than the cold marble of the English consulate. “Aud Torvingen,” I said to the woman behind the desk. Her hair was sleek as a seal’s and though she had the dark skin and eyes of Sevilla, her grooming was Southern: big nails, gold jewellery, an unnecessary bow on her blouse. As jarring as a beard on a drag queen.
I sat down in a comfortable chair. She glanced up at me once, then got on with her work: probably wondering who I was, probably also sure she would never find out. That’s what life is like in a consulate. A series of closed, comfortable rooms that most of the help never get to sit in.
Philippe came to get me himself. I would have been surprised if he hadn’t. He had deep gold hair and very long limbs. According to the check I had done on him after his initial phone call, he liked to play racquet sports—squash, racquetball, tennis—and was pretty good at it. I imagined he surprised a lot of his opponents who expected his arms and legs to tangle and clutter together, but his walk was efficient, fast. I rose.
“Glad you could come.” We shook hands. My mother once showed me a dozen different handshakes. This is the one that means I don’t think you’re worth my attention: a quick shake, with her hand already sliding from mine before it was properly finished. This one shows I hold you in great contempt: a snakelike up and down, bending at the wrist, fingers stiff as though she couldn’t wait to shake off my sweat. There were others. Cordova’s was a mixture of reserve and haste: fast, light, whippy.
His office had a beautiful oak floor. We sat opposite each other on surprisingly comfortable Georgian chairs. He handed me a manilla folder. “Beatriz del Gato.”
Consular officers love details: dates, times, places; mother, father, lovers; education, employment, illnesses. I took the folder and put it down next to me unopened. “Why haven’t you informed the Atlanta Police Department of her arrival?”
He folded his hands onto his lap. “Miss del Gato will only be here for four days. She wishes to remain incognito and believes her visit is a matter of some…delicacy.”
I smiled, understanding. “She’s doing something that she would find personally embarrassing to have reported in the press, but that you wouldn’t, particularly?”
His mouth gave away nothing but there was a smile in his voice. “Miss del Gato wishes to work in an advertising agency. She wishes to be offered a job without her prospective employer giving her any special favours.”
“Why didn’t she try New York?”
“She did.”
“Ah.” Beatriz was too stupid, or unimaginative, or something, to be offered a job on her own merits. “I still don’t see why you can’t tell the APD.”