“Is this important?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the fun is over, Mrs. Takahashi. I’m now responsible for a man’s life. The prime reason François went down the first time was that there were no other suspects to Leesa’s murder. I need to find one.”
“And since I’m sitting here in front of you, I’m convenient, is that it?”
“Yes, that’s pretty much it. Why are you paying for François’s defense?”
“I told you that already. It has to do with my friendship with Leesa.”
“And I didn’t believe you the first time you told me. Who did François go home with that first night? You?”
“Yes.”
“Was Leesa upset?”
“No.”
“She didn’t feel left out?”
“She wasn’t.”
I cocked my head, Velma Takahashi laughed. It took me perhaps a moment too long to figure it out. François Dubé, that little devil.
“Is that all?” she said, arching one plucked brow.
“So how did lucky Leesa end up with him?”
“She fell in love, that was how. Victor, you have to understand, we weren’t your usual sit-at-the-bar-and-hope-someone-notices-us type of girls. We were buccaneers when we were out together, in search of fun and profit. When we liked something, we went after it. When we both liked it, we shared. None of our victims complained, as far as I remember. And in the end, like good buccaneers, we divvied up what goods we plundered. Most of the men we tossed overboard, but François had certain talents, which Leesa found attractive. He never had enough money to suit my tastes, so I let her have him. At the time I was already being wooed by my husband.”
“Did he know you were three-waying with François while he was courting you?”
“He knew what he was getting, and he couldn’t wait.”
“And François didn’t mind you two women deciding his future?”
“He didn’t have much choice, did he? But he was the fool who decided to get married. He told Leesa he wanted to save her from my bad influence. We laughed over that one, Leesa and I, but he did everything he could to separate us. And finally, after they married, he succeeded.”
“So that’s why you don’t like him much.”
“That’s right.”
“But it still doesn’t explain why you put flowers on her grave every week.”
“I need to go,” she said, standing, pulling down the hem of her tennis blouse.
“Why do you feel guilty about Leesa Dubé’s death, Mrs. Takahashi?”
“You’ll let me know when you need more money.”
“Count on it.”
“Good day, Victor.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Your powers of observation, Victor, never fail to amaze me.” And then she was gone, out of my office, down the hall, gone.
I leaned over to my window, saw her leave the building and wait impatiently until her limousine pulled up to the curb. The driver bounded out, opened the door. She slipped past him into the car, pulled her shapely legs in behind her. I waited there until the limousine drove off, and then I rushed out to my secretary.
“Did you get them, Ellie?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Any good?”
“Not quite picture postcards,” she said, “but not bad.”
“Let me see.”
Ellie handed me her cell phone. I paged through the photographs on her color screen. Velma Takahashi in her tennis outfit, sitting, legs crossed, looking off impatiently. Velma Takahashi talking on her own cell phone. Velma Takahashi in close-up, staring straight ahead.
“Did she know you were taking them?” I said.
“I don’t think so. She doesn’t seem the type to take much notice of the hired help.”
“You’re right about that,” I said. “Can you get some prints made at a photo shop?”
“Why, Mr. Carl? To hang on your wall like a pinup?”
“Absolutely. But first I need to see a guy about a dog.”
32
In Philadelphia, if you want to start a restaurant, first you buy a bank. Then you fire the tellers, tart up the place to fit your theme, hire a famous chef, stick the valet parkers out front, charge thirty-six bucks for a piece of fish, and away you go. That’s the way it worked for the Striped Bass, for Circe and the Ritz-Carlton, and that’s the way it worked for Geoffrey Sunshine, when he bought the First Philadelphia Bank building, with its soaring marble pillars and golden ceiling inlays. His supper club, Marrakech, was an exotic Moroccan fantasy for the discriminating diner, offering Mediterranean cuisine in an atmosphere of fluid lights and shimmering fabrics. The ceiling was blue, the upholstery golden, the tagines aromatic. Tables at Marrakech were booked months in advance, and still they made you wait when you arrived, just because they could. But the real action in the joint was not in the restaurant, it was upstairs, in the splendiferous El Bahia Club.
“She has a dinner appointment,” I said to Beth as we stood together at the El Bahia bar, trying to grab the attention of one of the too-cool-to-care bartenders. “She’s in public relations. But she said she’d join us here for a before-dinner jolt.”
“So where did you meet her?”
“My dentist introduced us.”
“Your dentist? I thought you hated the lot of them.”
“I do. Savage little bastards.”
“It’s that tiny chuckle they give when they hit a nerve and you gasp in pain,” she said, nodding. “It’s the way they say, as if to a defiant child, ‘Loosen your lower lip, you’re fighting me,’ and all I want to say is, ‘Of course I’m fighting you, you sadist, you’re scraping the flesh off my gums.’ ”
“Yeah, Dr. Bob does all of that.”
“But still you trusted him enough to set you up?”
“Well, he’s an interesting guy.”
The bar of the El Bahia was jammed with quite the sharp-suited crowd. The place was decorated like a sultan’s palace, inlays and mosaics, curtains and rugs and golden statues of naked women. Around the rollicking dance floor, heavy chairs and couches sat in intimate groupings on raised tiers. Tables filled with patrons surrounded the circular bar, there was a separate room in the back for the cigar smokers, the bartenders were crazy busy and they enjoyed ignoring your calls for drinks. And this was only a Wednesday. Saturday night the line to get in snaked well down the street.
Finally I caught the attention of a beefy guy behind the bar. He had a flattop and an earring and he wiped his hands on a rag as he came over.
“A Sea Breeze for me,” I said. I looked at Beth.
“Beer,” she said, “in a bottle.”
“What kind?” said the barkeep.
“Brown,” said Beth. The bartender looked at her for a moment, uncomprehending, before he shrugged and left to gather our order.
“You said your dentist was an interesting guy,” said Beth. “How so?”
“He says he likes to help. I think it means he tries to meddle in people’s lives in hopes of making the world a better and more peaceful place.”
“And I suppose, as a dentist, he does it wearing rubber gloves and a mask, like Batman.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re absolutely right. The Justice League of Professionals. Accountantman. Actuarial Woman. The Green Litigator. Gad.”
“Who would your dentist be?”
“The Steel Pick, I suppose, scourge of plaque the world over, scaling great heights in the never-ending battle against tooth decay.”
“With his archnemesis, the femme fatale Ginger Vitus.”
“Ooh, I like that, sweet Ginger with her coffee-colored cat suit and faint aroma of decay.”
“How’d you find him?”
“Whitney Robinson recommended him,” I said. “And then I found out he was also treating Seamus Dent.”
It was cute the way Beth’s eyes bugged out at that one. “Does your dentist know anything about François?”
“I haven’t asked him yet.”
“Victor. Why not?”
“Because you don’t go right at Dr. Bob. He’s the kind of guy you have to come at obliquely. He’s letting me know what he wants me to know in his own sweet way. Ah, our drinks.”