Page 88 of So Close

Whenever an inquiry is made into her background, someone becomes aware that she’s being sought. You make a lot of inquiries; a lot of people know.

What if this woman found out Kane was looking for her, thinking she was his wife, and saw an opportunity? Is it possible two different women’s lives became tangled up together? An orphan and a con artist?

Turning, Ryan resumes his seat and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. His face is taut and solemn. “Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”

43

WITTE

As I followMr Black down the hallway, I’m astonished by the change in him. His suit is the same one worn the day he departed the city, but he’s not the same man inside it. The gentleman who returned from Greenwich with his wife is … rejuvenated. His stride is light and quick, and his movements have a new fluidity. His hair is slightly too long, but he’s as smartly clean-shaven as if I’d seen to the task personally.

Before he turns into his office, he glances down the hallway towards the living room. I know he’s looking for Lily. She’s not in view, but he can’t help but check. He struggled to be in the same room with her before they left for the beach house. Now, he struggles to be without her.

The mailroom was holding several packages for her when I returned to the penthouse in anticipation of their return – boxes from Tiffany & Co., Hermès, Bergdorf’s and more. She’s sorting through them now.

Sitting at his desk, Mr Black gestures for me to take one of the visitor’s chairs. He settles, his gaze sweeping over his desk: his sleeping computer monitor, the accumulated mail I’ve opened and organized on the blotter, the framed photo of Lily lying face down. His gaze lingers there, but curiously, he doesn’t set it to rights.

“Will you be visiting the beach house regularly over the coming season?” I ask. “Should I keep it open?”

He seems lost in thought for a moment, uncomprehending. Then his gaze clears. He looks at me and nods. “Yes, keep it ready.”

I wait for him to broach the more pressing topics we touched upon during our calls last night and this morning, although I’ve had less than a day to expand our search.

“Val Laska?” he queries. “I know it’s early, but do we have anything?”

“His full name is Valon Laska, and I’ve confirmed his identity as the man who sent the flowers. Mrs Black’s characterization of him as a gangster is apt, although the breadth and depravity of his crimes beg for a stronger descriptor. He was under investigation by the Organized Crime Control Bureau for decades, and the case file remains open. He’s occasionally been arrested, served brief amounts of time in prison, but seems suspiciously fortunate in evading more stringent punishment.”

He rocks back in his chair with his elbows on the armrests and his fingertips steepled together. There’s a hint of a smile. “So, she was honest to some degree.”

“It’s a family operation,” I continue, “with several cousins, nephews, brothers and the like. There’s no legal documentation that Laska has ever been married, nor is he known to have any children. However, a wife is rumoured, and she’s said to be more terrifying than he is.”

I pull my mobile out, unlock it and set it on the blotter with the screen face up and brightly lit.

He moves swiftly, straightening and spinning his chair to face the desk. He studies the displayed image with a narrowed gaze.

The photo is one taken by the OCCB during surveillance. Valon Laska is unmistakable simply by his sheer size. He’s a bruiser of a man.

They captured his image on a wintry day. The city’s snowploughs had shoved dirty ice to the edge of the pavements. The sky was a deep grey, as cold and lifeless as a corpse.

They caught Laska stepping onto the street behind a woman half-hidden by the waiting car at the kerb. She’s tall, with a waterfall of sleek black hair that falls below her waist. A thick fur coat obscures her figure, and she wears a matching papakha on her head. Oversized sunglasses partially conceal a compelling face that is a familiar mystery. Her skin is pale as cream, and her lips are sensual curves enhanced by slaughterous red lipstick.

My employer says nothing, staring at the photo with wide, dark eyes that are empty of all but shock and horror.

“We’ll get more with time,” I tell him. “The Bureau disbanded a few months ago, so I didn’t expect to have anything for you so quickly, but my contact was able to produce that image. It was taken several years ago, just a block from the Crossfire.”

He sets my mobile down carefully, as if it might break, then rests heavily into the seat back of his chair. His eyes close.

“No one’s seen Laska in New York in years,” I go on. “It was believed a rival may have assassinated him, or even by someone within his organization who wanted to advance. His reappearance six months ago was an unwelcome shock to the NYPD. So far, there’s been no sighting of the woman in the city, but my contacts say she must be nearby as the two are inseparable. They don’t even suspect that she’s deceased. Is Mrs Black worried about retaliation or prosecution for her mother’s death?”

“No. My understanding of their family dynamic is that Steph Laska expected her daughter to follow in her footsteps and ultimately kill her. Laska apparently understood this and accepted it.” Mr Black’s fingers drum restlessly on his armrests. “You said there might be a lead at a consignment shop?”

“We’ve interviewed personnel. Lily was a regular for a short time, always paid in cash – small bills. She purchased entire ensembles. If she bought jeans, she also purchased shoes, shirt and accessories to pair with them, which aligns with how she maintains her wardrobe here. None of the employees recalls seeing her prior to six months ago. She was a frequent customer for a few months, but she hasn’t been in recently – obviously, because she’s been with you.”

I study my employer, feeling disturbed. Helpless. Angry. The vigour he’d returned with has drained from him. He’s pale, his mouth tense and bracketed with lines of strain. His shoulders have risen into a defensive hunch.

My voice softens. “You mentioned discussing your safety with Mrs Black. Were the examples you gave me her own words?”

“Yes.”

---