Author's note: This is the second story in the series, though each could stand alone. Check my profile for my first: "The Fool."
Tuesday, July 4, 2023
"--a detective," I said through the door in the fence. "Lucia Visconti sent me? The lawyer? She said she'd call ahead, let you know I was coming."
The girl's voice was hesitant: "Yeah, she called. Do you have, like, a badge or ID or something?"
I leaned in closer to the flaking paint. "I can show you my driver's license."
"Just give me a sec, OK? It's early."
I glanced skeptically at my watch, for no one's benefit. It was coming on noon, though you wouldn't know it back here in the shade, by the dumpsters. The property was split-level, so the basement apartments looked out on an overgrown parking lot that was thoroughly starved of light. Pale moss thrived on the asphalt. An ancient, two-tone Mercury sedan cooked in the heat.
"No rush," I said. "Thirty minutes, tops, and I'm out of your life."
No response from inside. I stepped back to monitor the rear window, though I knew it was masked with heavy, mismatched curtains. A row of empty wine bottles stood on the sill, their labels steamed off. And someone had threaded dried flower stems in the necks of each. The display was surprisingly tasteful.
I wasn't worried the girl would bolt. I'd been here yesterday, way earlier than this, to scout the possible exits. There were just two apartments, left and right off a damp hallway. The stairs at the end of the passage might lead up and out, but the door at the top was locked. Landlord's idea, if I had to guess: keep the tenants in their appointed places--commercial above, residential below. At the near end of the hallway was a little-used entrance, huddled beneath a ragged awning. If the girl came that way, she'd walk right past me. That left the flimsy door in the fence they'd thrown up to frame her tiny "yard," beside which I was patiently standing. No, she wasn't going anywhere, not without me knowing.
Besides, she'd had more than a year to run--to flee this place--and she hadn't.
I heard a glass pane slide back and squeak to a halt. The pad of bare feet on concrete. Then the latch clacked and the wooden door swung outward. Before me stood Ayame Jones, 24 years old, 5'2" and 110 pounds, though some of that was bathrobe: the girl was drowning in the folds of one, plush and fawn and man-sized. The only thing it didn't cover was her toes, the nails of which were painted white.
She looked stunned to find me there, on her doorstep. Or perhaps that was just her face: she had a prim, plum mouth that conveyed perpetual surprise, only a little wider than it was tall; and the soulful black stare of a deer trapped in headlights, right as you jam on the brakes. Her eyes featured delicate folds at the inner corners--a gift from her mother, who was Japanese. From her father, some unknown white guy, she'd inherited a put-upon scowl.
"ID," she grunted.
"To check what? You don't even know my name."
"Lawyer said you were Rocky. Or Ricky?"
"Close enough," I said, digging out my license and handing it over.
"'Rocchi,'" she read aloud, correcting herself, though the pronunciation didn't change much. Her voice was high-pitched, vaguely nasal. "Says here you're younger than you look. I guess you got old in a hurry?"
Something like that, I thought. But I noticed how quickly she'd turned my date of birth into an actual age. She was used to checking IDs.
Out loud, I said, "Wears you down, detective work. You meet a lot of rude people."
She flashed a suspicous glare at that, to which I returned languid, innocent blinks.
"Maybe people just hate talking to cops," she said bitterly.
"Good thing I'm not one. Can we go inside?"
"Classic cop line. Precisely what a cop would say." Her speech had the stilted affect of someone who spent too much time online.
"I'm a
private
detective, Ayame."
Pistol-quick: "Oh, like a
pretend
cop? From motion pictures?"
I ignored her, pressed on. "Am I saying that right: 'Ayame?' Wouldn't want to mess up a person's name."
She wiggled her mouth in response. The tic read as irritation, but maybe she was covering a smirk; I'd have to see it again to be sure. Meanwhile, she was tilting my driver's license back and forth in the light, shaking her head in dismay.
"This isn't a good picture of you," she declared. Which was, by the most circuitous route possible, a kind of compliment: she was admitting I looked better in the flesh.
"Well, you can hand it back any time."
She did so with seeming reluctance, probably sensing this would rob her of power. "You're kind of sassy for a fake cop," she said, gathering her robe tighter around her. Intentionally or not, the move lent more shape to her figure; I could make out the extent of her shoulders, her hips. "No badge, no gun ... no warrant ..."
"Who says I don't have a gun?"
That bought me an eyeroll, but she also looked me over with growing interest. I was conscious of the gray in my hair and the gray in my beard; the last couple years had leached all my color. The cheeriest thing about me was a bright red shirt, unbuttoned over a white tee. Sleeves rolled, jeans rolled. Boots too heavy for this Southern summer. I'd dressed younger for this rundown college neighborhood, trying to seem innocuous. But I could tell from her gaze that I'd landed somewhere close to "intriguing."
"You said thirty minutes?" Ayame asked. "And I'm not in any trouble?"
"Not with me." Not yet, anyway. It would hinge on what she chose to tell me.
"OK," she nodded grudgingly. "You can come in, but take your shoes off." And she sashayed back inside, leaving me to close the door behind us. Her robe made her look like a proud moll in mink--the budget version.
Past the fence, the yard was just a cracked concrete slab. Scuffed plastic card table, cheap folding chairs. On the table was a cereal bowl, its milk pink with sugar; I took it she was done with breakfast. I tugged off my boots and stepped inside.
Through a sliding glass door was a dim living space, kitchen, and greenhouse: there were potted plants everywhere, well-tended and richly in bloom. Dahlias, geraniums, roses-of-sharon. It was much cooler in here, which explained the bathrobe, and it smelled like muddled perfume cut with bleach; Ayame kept things clean and neat, except for the bountiful flowers.
She shut the door and locked it. I caught a momentary hitch as she realized she was trapping herself inside with a stranger. To put her at ease, I flopped into a corner beanbag chair and fished my phone from my pocket.
"Mind if I record this?"
"I
extremely
fucking mind. Like that shit wasn't traumatic the first time."
"The real cops, you mean?"
She nodded. "Felt like they were camped out in the parking lot. Months of them dropping by without warning, trying to catch me out with stupid shit." She offered a mocking impression: "'You said you last saw him on the Friday, miss? Yet you didn't call for two days?'" She waved one hand angrily, clearing the room of her phantom police. "They kept carting out more of his stuff--clothes, photographs--and never brought anything back."
"That would be ... Jackson's stuff?" Her boyfriend, missing two years.
Another nod. Ayame opted to perch on a lone stool by the kitchen counter; amid all the flowers, it was the only other seating available. Her robe hiked up to reveal shapely, light brown calves. The fleeting shadow of a thigh.
"That lawyer, Visconti? She said you wouldn't grill me."
"That's right," I said. "Simple questions, easy answers."
