Glamorama (73 page)

Delta reaches down for his Starbucks cup.

Another photo is handed to me.

Marina Gibson. A simple color head shot, unevenly reproduced on an 8×10.

“That’s the girl I met on the QE2,” I say. “Where is she? What happened to her? When was this taken?” And then, less excited, “Is she … okay?”

Palakon pauses briefly before saying, “We think she’s dead.”

My voice is cracking when I ask, “How? How do you know this?”

“Mr. Johnson,” Crater says, leaning in. “We think this woman was sent to warn you.”

“Wait,” I say, unable to hold the photo any longer. “Sent to warn me? Warn me about
what?
Wait a minute. Jesus, wait—”

“That’s what we’re trying to piece together, Mr. Johnson,” Delta says.

Palakon has leaned toward the VCR and presses Play on the console. Camcorder footage, surprisingly professional. It’s the
QE2
. For an instant, the actress playing Lorrie Wallace leans against a railing, demurely, her head tilted, and she’s alternating staring at the ocean with smiling at the person behind the camera, who quickly pans over to where Marina lies on a chaise longue, wearing leopard-print Capri pants, a white gauzy half-shirt, giant black tortoiseshell sunglasses that cover almost half her face.

“That’s her,” I say. “That’s the girl I met on the
QE2
. How did you get this tape? That’s the girl I was going to go to Paris with.”

Palakon pauses, pretending to consult his file, and finally, hopelessly, again says, “We think she’s dead.”

“As I was saying, Mr. Johnson,” Crater says, leaning toward me a little too aggressively, “we think that Marina Cannon was sent to warn—”

“No, wait, guys, wait,” I’m saying. “It was Gibson. Her name was Gibson.”

“No, it was Cannon,” Delta says. “Her name was Marina Cannon.”

“Wait, wait, guys,” I’m saying. “Sent to warn me by who? About what?”

“That’s what we’re trying to piece together,” Palakon says, overly patient.

“We think that whoever sent her didn’t want you making contact with Jamie Fields, and by extension Bobby Hughes, once you arrived in London,” Crater says. “We think she was provided as a distraction. As an alternative.”

“Provided?” I’m asking. “
Provided?
What in the fuck does that mean?”

“Mr. Ward—” Palakon starts.

“Jamie told me she knows her,” I say suddenly. “That she knew her. Why would Marina want me to stay away from Jamie if they knew each other?”

“Did Jamie Fields say
how
she knew her? Or in what context she knew her?” Palakon asks. “Did Jamie Fields let you know what their connection was?”

“No … ,” I’m murmuring. “No …”

“Didn’t you ask?” Crater and Delta exclaim at the same time. “No,” I say, dazed, murmuring. “No … I’m sorry … no …” From behind me Russell says, “Palakon.”

“Yes, yes,” Palakon says.

On the TV screen the camera keeps panning across the length of the deck and, whenever Marina glances at it, always back to Lorrie Wallace. But once it stays for several moments on Marina, who gazes at it almost as if the camera were daring her.

“Where did you get this?” I’m asking.

“It’s not an original,” Delta says. “It’s a copy.”

“That’s an answer?” I ask, jaw clenched.

“It doesn’t matter how we got it,” Delta snaps.

“The Wallaces took that,” I say, staring at the screen. “Turn it off.”

“The Wallaces?” I hear someone ask.

“Yeah.” I’m nodding. “The Wallaces. They were this couple from England. This English couple. I forget what they do. What they told me. I think she opens restaurants. Whatever. Turn it off, just turn it off.”

“How did you meet them?” Palakon asks, pressing a button, causing the TV to flash black.

“I don’t know. They were just on the ship. They introduced themselves to me. We had dinner.” I’m moaning, rubbing my hands over my face. “They said they knew my father—”

Some kind of connection is automatically made and resonates among the three men sitting across from me.

“Oh shit,” Delta says.

Immediately Crater mutters, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

Palakon keeps nodding involuntarily, his mouth opening slightly so he can take in more air.

Delta furiously writes down something on the folder resting in his lap.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Crater keeps muttering. The Japanese man lights a cigarette, his face illuminated briefly by the match. Something’s wrong. He’s scowling. “Palakon?” Russell calls out behind me. Palakon looks up, knocked out of his concentration.

I turn around.

Russell taps his watch. Palakon nods irritably.

“Did Marina Cannon ask you anything?” Delta asks hurriedly, leaning in.

“Oh shit,” I mutter. “I don’t know. Like what?”

“Did she ask you if—” Crater starts.

I suddenly remember and, interrupting Crater, I murmur, “She wanted to know if anyone gave me anything to bring with me to England.”

her departure from the Queen’s Grill, the desperate phone call she made later that night, and I was drunk and grinning at myself in a mirror in my cabin, giggling, and there was blood in her bathroom and who else except Bobby Hughes knew she was on that ship and you were heading toward another country and there was a tattoo, black and shapeless, on her shoulder

I’m wiping sweat off my forehead and the room starts slanting, then it catches itself.

“Such as?” Palakon asks.

I’m grasping at something, and finally realize what it is.

“I think she meant”—I look up at Palakon—“the hat.”

Everyone starts writing something. They wait for me to continue, to elaborate, but since I can’t, Palakon coaxes me by asking, “But the hat disappeared from the
QE2
, right?”

I nod slowly. “But maybe … I’m thinking … maybe she took it and … and gave it … to someone.”

“No,” Delta mutters. “Our sources say she didn’t.”

“Your
sources
?” I’m asking. “Who in the fuck are your sources?”

“Mr. Ward,” Palakon starts. “This will all be explained to you at a later date, so please—”

“What was in the hat?” I’m asking, cutting him off. “Why did you tell me to bring that hat? Why was it torn apart when I found it? What was in the hat, Palakon?”

“Mr. Ward, Victor, I promise you that at our next meeting I’ll explain,” Palakon says. “But we simply don’t have time now—”

“What do you mean?” I’m asking, panicking. “You have more important things to do? I mean, holy shit, Palakon. I have no idea what’s going on and—”

“We have other photos to show you,” Palakon interrupts, handing three glossy 8×10s to me.

Two people dressed in tropical clothing on a foamy shore. Yards and yards of wet sand. The sea rests behind them. White sunlight, purple at the edges, hangs above the couple. Because of their hair you can tell it’s windy. He’s sipping a drink from a coconut shell. She’s smelling a purple lei hanging from her neck. In another photo she’s (improbably) petting a swan. Bobby Hughes stands behind her, smiling (also improbably) in a kind way. In the last photo Bobby Hughes is kneeling behind the girl, helping her pick a tulip.

The girl in all three photos is Lauren Hynde.

I start weeping again.

“That’s … Lauren Hynde.”

A long pause, and then I hear someone ask, “When did you last have contact with Lauren Hynde, Victor?” I keep weeping, unable to hold it together.

“Victor?” Palakon asks.

“What is she doing with him?” I sob.

“Victor met her while they were students at Camden, I believe,” Palakon says softly to his colleagues, an explanation that doesn’t accomplish anything, but I nod silently to myself, unable to look up.

“And after that?” someone asks. “When did you last have contact with Lauren Hynde?”

Still weeping, I manage, “I met her last month … in Manhattan … at a Tower Records.”

Russell’s cell phone rings, jarring all of us.

“Okay,” I hear him say.

After clicking off he implores Palakon to start moving.

“We’ve got to go,” Russell says. “It’s time.”

“Mr. Johnson, we’ll be in touch,” Delta says.

I’m reaching into my jacket pocket while wiping my face.

“Yes, this was … illuminating,” Crater says, not at all sincerely.

“Here.” Ignoring Crater, I hand Palakon the printout of the
WINGS
file. “This is something I found in the computer in the house. I don’t know what it means.”

Palakon takes it from me. “Thank you, Victor,” he says genuinely, slipping it into his folder without even looking at it. “Victor, I want you to calm down. We will be in touch. It might even be tomorrow—”

“But since I last saw you, Palakon, they blew up a fucking hotel,” I shout. “They killed the French premier’s son.”

“Mr. Ward,” Palakon says gently, “other factions have already taken blame for the bombing at the Ritz.”

“What other factions?” I’m shouting. “They did it. Bruce Rhinebeck left a bomb at the fucking Ritz. There are no other factions. They
are
the faction.”

“Mr. Ward, we really—”

“I just don’t feel you’re concerned about my welfare, Palakon,” I say, choking.

“Mr. Ward, that’s simply not true,” Palakon says, standing, which causes me to stand as well.

“Why did you send me to find her?” I’m shouting. “Why did you send me to find Jamie Fields?” I’m about to grab Palakon but Russell pulls me back.

“Mr. Ward, please,” Palakon says. “You must go. We’ll be in touch.”

I fall into Russell, who keeps propping me up.

“I don’t care anymore, Palakon. I don’t care.”

“I think you do, Mr. Ward.”

“Why is that?” I ask, bewildered, staring at him. “Why do you think that?”

“Because if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be here.” I take this in.

“Hey, Palakon,” I say, stunned. “I didn’t say I wasn’t scared shitless.”

18

Russell races down the stairs in the building on Avenue Verdier two steps at a time and I’m tumbling behind him, for support grabbing on to a marble banister that’s so encased with ice it burns my hand, and outside on the street I hold that hand up, panting, telling Russell to slow down.

“We can’t,” Russell says. “We have to go. Now.”

“Why?” I’m asking uselessly, bent over. “Why?”

I brace myself to be pulled along toward the black Citroën but Russell suddenly stops moving and he’s breathing in, composing himself.

Disoriented, I stand up straight. Russell casually nudges me.

I’m looking over at him, confused. He’s pretending to smile at someone.

Jamie Fields is walking uncertainly toward us, clutching a small white paper bag—no makeup, sweatpants, hair pulled back with a scrunchie, Gucci sunglasses.

Behind her the French film crew is piling equipment into a blue van that’s double-parked on Avenue Verdier.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, lowering her sunglasses.

“Hey,” I’m saying, gesturing mindlessly.

“What’s going on?” she asks, a little mystified. “Victor?”

“Oh yeah, y’know, just hanging,” I’m saying vacantly, semi-stunned. “I’m just … hanging, um, baby.”

Pause. “What?” she asks, laughing, as if she hasn’t heard me. “Hanging?” She pauses. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m fine, I’m cool,” I’m saying, gesturing mindlessly. “It looks like rain, huh, baby?”

“You’re white,” she says. “You look like you’ve been … crying.” She reaches out a hand to touch my face. Instinctively I pull away.

“No, no, no,” I’m saying. “No, I haven’t been crying. I’m cool. I was just yawning. Things are cool.”

“Oh,” she says, followed by a long pause.

“Whoa,” I add to it.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Well, baby, I’m here with”—I glance at Russell—“my friend and we’re …” I land on, “Well,
I’m
taking French lessons from him.” She just stares at me. Silence.

“You know, baby, I can’t speak a word of it. So.” I shrug.

She’s still staring at me. More silence.

“Not—one—word,” I say stiffly.

“Right,” she says, but now she’s staring at Russell. “You look totally familiar. Have we met?”

“I don’t think so,” Russell says. “But maybe.”