Blood Money (3 page)

“The car?”

“The car too, but mostly her. Very expensive clothes, a lot of jewelry, big hair. The car was a cream-colored Mercedes convertible. Danny was there on some kind of business, and for the rest of the day, other men would come to his room, some with briefcases and some with nothing, but all kind of … not quite clean, you know? Like they didn’t get a shower that day, just put on their clothes and combed their hair.”

“And?”

“Danny knew that I knew what was going on. One day I’m on his hall when she leaves in a hurry, practically running. He came into a room I was cleaning and gave me
twenty bucks to give his room a quick clean-up first. The man who was going to be there in about fifteen minutes was this woman’s husband.”

“He told you that?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No. He kind of gave me a sheep-face grin, like I was the one who caught him at something. A few minutes later I couldn’t help knowing. It was the car. The man drove up to the front of the hotel with a car so the valet would park it, and it was the same one the girlfriend had used the week before. Anyway, I had just cleaned the room, got rid of everything that had her lipstick on it or smelled like her perfume.” She frowned. “It was a good thing, too. Her husband was scary. He was maybe sixty, and he wasn’t big, but he had eyes like one of those turtles at the zoo they tell you is four hundred years old—and how they found that out, I’d like to know. I mean, who was there? But you get the picture about him. He had three guys with him. Two came in a different car, but they were all wrong. You know how you can see somebody and something inside you says, This isn’t normal? The three were all young—late twenties or thirties—and they were just wrong. They wore suits, but they didn’t look like men who wear suits. They were all big, like weight lifters, and the suits looked like they all bought them in the same store on the same day, and it was yesterday. You see men like that, but not usually three of them.”

“So what happened?”

“Nothing. They came and left in about a half hour. My friend Danny came out looking like he just got to the end of a tightrope, and smiled at me again. Next time he came to town, he offered me a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“It was the same thing—cleaning. He offered me three times what I was getting at the hotel. There was this house in the Keys, and I was supposed to clean it. That’s all.”

Jane sighed. “And it turned out there was more to the job than cleaning.”

“No,” said Rita. “That was it.”

Jane decided not to make more guesses aloud. Maybe this Danny just figured that if he could bribe her to keep his secret, the husband could bribe her to reveal it.

Rita said, “It was a beautiful house, on the ocean. The one who lived there was a nice old man. I was there for a year. It was great.”

“When did it stop being great?”

“Three days ago. The old man went away for a little trip. My friend Danny took him to the airport at four in the morning. I figured this was a great chance to show off, so I spent the whole day giving the house a real cleaning. There’s nothing in that place that can be polished or waxed or shined that wasn’t that day. I didn’t stop until about nine at night. I took a shower and fell asleep as soon as I was off my feet. The next thing I know, there are eight or nine big guys. They come into the house in the middle of the night—not like burglars. They were talking loud and stomping around like they were in a big hurry. For a second or two, I thought it must be firemen coming in because I left something plugged in and started a fire. Then three of them come into my room. They look wrong, like the ones at the hotel. They haul me out of bed. One starts asking me all kinds of questions—where the old man kept this, or that. I don’t know any of the answers. When they figure that out and go down the hall, I go straight to the closet and start packing. One of them comes in again, and when he sees the suitcase, he flips it over on the bed and says I’m not leaving. I’m going with them.”

“Did he say where?”

“He said, ‘To see Mr. Delfina.’ ”

Jane’s jaw tightened. “Do you know who that is?”

“No. But it sounded like I was supposed to. You know: Mister.”

Jane stopped listening, but the girl didn’t notice. “So I left the suitcase there on the bed where they could see it, and left my clothes and everything, and I put my money and ID and my mother’s picture and stuff in my jacket pockets. After daybreak, most of them left. There were only three of them
searching the closets and the attic, and one in the back yard. I went out the sliding door off the patio on the side, went over the wall, and walked to the bus stop … ”

Jane watched the girl’s lips move, and she knew she should be listening, or should tell the girl to stop because she would have to hear it all. The girl didn’t know that she was thinking about the husband she loved so deeply, and that her eyes weren’t focused on the kitchen window because she was concentrating on the story. She was looking at it because she was getting used to the idea that she might never see it again. The girl didn’t know that she had said the only word that had needed to be said: Delfina.

After a moment, Jane turned and switched off the burners on the stove and closed the window, then walked through the house checking the others. When she came back the girl was standing beside the table, her skinny arms now crossed on her chest so each hand gripped the opposite elbow as though she were protecting herself from the cold. Jane said, “Does anyone besides Celia Fulham know you came here?”

“No,” said the girl. “I never heard of you before yesterday, and I didn’t get off the bus until I got to Celia.”

“What about after that? Where did you sleep last night?”

“A hotel.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pack of matches, and handed it to Jane. “I kept those so I’d know my way home.”

Jane’s eyebrows knitted as she looked at the matchbook. The girl had called it home, and it was probably as much of a home as anywhere. Jane knew the hotel, and it wasn’t the sort of place she had expected. It wasn’t a cheap, obscure cluster of wooden buildings on a little-used highway. It was a big, respectable hotel. Jane returned the matchbook. “I know where it is. What name did you use to rent the room?”

“My name?” It was a question.

Jane needed to be sure. “You used your own name. Rita Shelford.”

“Well, almost. My mother called me Anita, and that’s what it says on my birth certificate. Her name is Ann, and she decided I was like a miniature her. Really dumb, huh?”
She didn’t detect a reaction from Jane. “So that’s what my credit card says too.”

Jane hid her uneasiness. “Have you checked out yet?”

“No,” said Rita. “I had to have some place to sleep in case I didn’t find you. And I brought some stuff with me that I didn’t want to carry around, because I might lose it.”

“Is it important?”

The girl hesitated, confused.

“Let me explain,” said Jane. “If it’s anything that money can replace, or that you can live without, it’s not important. If finding it will tell someone who you are and where you went next, it’s very important.”

The girl looked down at her feet, then at Jane. “It’s important.”

Jane picked up her purse from the little cloakroom off the kitchen and checked to be sure her keys were in it. “Let’s go get it and check you out.”

“Now?” The girl had sensed the urgency.

“Now,” said Jane. She stopped to scribble a note on the pad stuck to the refrigerator where she had written shopping lists. “Something came up. Dinner’s ready on the stove. Just heat it. I’ll call you later. Love, Jane.” She considered writing “Don’t worry,” then put the note as it was on the dining room table. It was hard to imagine how lying to Carey would make it any easier for him to accept what she was going to have to tell him.

R
ita sat in the front seat beside Jane and let the rush of air blow over the half-open window to cool her. She wanted to feel as though it was over now, and she was safe. The tall, thin, black-haired woman beside her seemed to do everything with a kind of quiet competence. Whenever Rita noticed the cold blue eyes turned toward her, she saw no doubt or indecision, nor any hint of that sloppy, apologetic look her mother had that showed her that a decision had been made and Rita wasn’t going to like it. But Rita saw no softness in them either, and that was probably not good news. She supposed that, once again, it was wrong to think that anything might be going well. On the balance, she judged that the appropriate thing to do was cry, but the air and motion and having her feet off the pavement felt too much like progress to be anything but good.

Jane took the bridge over the Niagara and drove across a flat island so big that Rita needed to remind herself that an island was what it was, then another bridge, and Rita began to recognize the outskirts of Niagara Falls.

Jane drove to the hotel, but Rita didn’t feel the seat belt pulling against her to signal that the car was slowing down. “That’s it,” she said. “You’re going past it.”

“I know,” said Jane quietly. “I like to get a look at a parking lot before I drive into it, and I don’t like that one. There’s only one way out, and I don’t want to get stuck if we have a problem. We’ll park on the street.” Jane turned the next corner onto a smaller street that had a few souvenir shops and a liquor store, and stopped the car.

She turned to Rita. “Now we’ll walk in. If you see anyone inside that you remember from Florida, don’t look into his eyes, and don’t nudge me. Just tell me in a normal voice and keep walking at the same speed. We’ll go right through to another exit and make a run for the car.”

“Okay. What if I don’t see anybody?”

“We’ll go to your room, get what you left, and go down to check out. The way we do that is—”

“I used to work in a hotel,” she interrupted. “I know how to check out.” Jane could hear a slightly offended tone. “Anyway, it seems like standing around at the front desk will just give people more chance to notice me.”

“I know,” said Jane. “But I’m hoping nobody learns you’re here in time to see you. When you checked in, you used your credit card. Usually they take an impression of it and file it. They don’t actually notify the credit card company of the charge until you check out. So we’ll transfer the bill to one of my cards.”

“Why?” Now she was sure she should be offended. “I told you I have money. I work.”

“It’s not about money,” said Jane. “You don’t seem to know why Frank Delfina wants you. But I know that the easiest way he has to find you is to request a credit check on you every hour or so and look for new charges. Yours is in your own name, mine isn’t.”

“Oh,” said Rita. Her mouth was a little o.

Jane walked with her to the hotel entrance, chatting cheerfully about nothing, but kept her eyes moving, glancing ahead to detect someone waiting for Rita, then watching Rita’s face for the expression to change from tension to alarm.

As they entered the lobby, Jane’s eyes scanned the loitering places—the armchairs along the side walls, the entrance to the bar, and the gift shop. She turned suddenly toward the gift shop. “Just a second,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” Rita whispered.

“Nothing,” said Jane. She went into the shop and pretended to study the souvenirs and supplies for a moment while Rita stood beside her, but she was using the time to
watch the lobby through the glass. Finally she went to the counter, picked up a newspaper from the pile, and bought it. As they returned to the lobby Jane said, “If somebody I didn’t see had been watching from outside, he would have followed us in. This looks like a good time. We’ll check you out and then go up. Here. Hold this.” She handed Rita the newspaper and went to the counter.

Jane gave the clerk her Kathleen Hobbs credit card, asked her to charge the bill to it, and checked Rita out while Rita stood beside her, staring at the newspaper.

They walked toward the elevator, and Jane could tell Rita wanted to say something, but she whispered, “Wait.”

When the elevator bell rang, they stepped inside, Jane pushed the close door button, and they were alone. “What floor?”

“Fifth,” said Rita. She was staring at the newspaper, her eyes wide. She held it up anxiously. “This is it!” she said. “That’s the house!”

“What?”

Rita pushed the newspaper in front of Jane. “It’s a picture of the house where I lived.”

It was a photograph of a sprawling one-story house with a tile roof and stucco sides above the beach in Florida. There was an extremely high wall, and inside it a few tall coconut palms. But the words printed above it were bold:
LIFE AND DEATH OF A LEGEND
. The caption beneath said, “The secluded Florida compound Bernie ‘the Elephant’ Lupus called home for decades.”

Jane muttered, “Great. Just great,” as she took the newspaper. Her eyes fought through the unnecessary verbiage and plucked out phrases. “Murdered in Detroit … shot down outside the airport.” Aloud she said, “Is that the old man you worked for? Bernie Lupus?”

“Bernie,” Rita said. “I never knew his last name. They all called him Bernie. Why is the house in the paper? Do they think I did something wrong?”

“It’s not about you. It’s about him. He … died.”

“Oh, no,” Rita said sadly. “He was such a sweet old
man … ” Then she looked distracted, puzzled. “Why is it in the papers here?”

“He was famous.”

Jane stood in silence as the elevator rose. Everything was clear, but it didn’t help, because each bit of information led to a dozen questions that each led to a dozen more, and none of the answers seemed to matter. If Bernie “the Elephant” Lupus had been shot, when had it happened? The girl had been on the road for a day and a half, and spent most of today trying to get close to Jane. That meant the shooting had taken place two days ago. Why hadn’t Jane heard of it instantly? She answered the question herself. She had not turned on the television news last night, because she and Carey had gone out to dinner after his hospital rounds, and had come home late. And now, because she had spent two years trying to distance herself from people who cared about this kind of news, there was no longer anyone who might call and tell her.