Mask Market

“It’s me, Beryl,” I said. “I had some work done on my face, but—”

“It is you! I would never have known your face, but that voice, it’s…it’s the same.”

“You have your father’s gift.”

“My…what?”

“Your father’s gift,” I said again. “He’s real good with voices, too.”

“My father sent you?”

“You mean, like he did before?”

“That wasn’t him,” she said, as if the words were poison in her mouth.

“I know,” I told her. “I didn’t know then, but I do now.”

“You think so?” she said, curling her lip. She shrugged out of her coat, crossed her legs, telling us she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Let’s see,” I said. “You were involved with a man named Daniel Parks. A money manager. He siphoned off money from a hedge fund he was running. A lot of money. He probably knew a lot more about high finance than he did about the people who put their money into his fund. So maybe he figured the most he was risking was a civil suit. Or even a fraud prosecution he could lawyer his way out of. How am I doing so far?”

“You’re talking,” she said, opening a silver box on the coffee table. She took out a prerolled joint, lit up, and pulled a heavy hit of Maryjane into her lungs.

“We don’t know exactly how much Parks stole. Probably take years to figure that out. But we know you ended up with a pile of it. He thought you were his secret bank. But the first time he started talking about making a withdrawal, you disappeared on him. You must have been planning it for a long time. It’s easy when they trust you, huh?”

“He was in love,” Beryl said, her drawl suggesting, “If God didn’t want them sheared…”

“Men aren’t your favorite humans, huh?”

“Good guess, Sherlock. If it weren’t for my mother, I’d be as queer as Ellen and Rosie combined.”

“Got it,” I said, trying to get her train back on the track I wanted. “You figured it for a low-risk play too, and you were right. So Parks gets arrested, so what? So he decides to name names, big deal. Far as you were concerned, he was just a generous lover.”

“Some men are,” she said, smiling ugly and dragging deep on her joint. She didn’t even bother to hold the smoke down—plenty more where that had come from.

“Then he gets himself gunned down, right on the street. Now you know the people he ripped off aren’t going to the Better Business Bureau. And they’re going to be looking for their money.”

“And so are you,” she said, her voice so thick with contempt I could barely make out the words. “Just like you were the last time.”

I could feel the Prof vibrating in the corner, a step away from erupting. I held up my hand to silence him.

“Don’t put it on anyone but me, Beryl,” I said. “The whole thing was mine. Everyone else just backed my play. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You know what they say about the road to Hell.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you don’t even get that much slack. I know you got paid to bring me back.”

“I did you wrong. I didn’t know it then. I know it now. That’s why I’m here.”

“What, to make it up to me?” she asked scornfully.

“I can’t do that. Because it can’t be done. Nobody could do it for me; nobody can do it for you.”

She gave me a sharp, appraising look, but she didn’t say anything.

“Here’s what I can do,” I told her. “I can get you safe. Not just off the hook—safe forever.”

She gave me a serpent’s grin, certain she was back on her home ground now. “Sure. All I have to do is give back the—”

“Not a dime,” I cut her off. “You walk away free and clear. You won’t have to hide in this basement. You can go right back to being Peta Bellingham, if you want.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“There’s more,” I said. “To sweeten the deal, I’ll even throw in some justice.”

“She might still run, son,” the Prof said on the drive back, signing with his fingers so that Max could follow along.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “She knows we found her once, we can find her again. Probably thinks we have her watched twenty-four/seven,” I went on, turning my hands into binoculars, then cupping my right ear in a listening gesture. “The deal I offered her is the only way out.”

I turned slowly in my seat, capturing each of them with my eyes until I had them all with me.

“There’s something else, too,” I told them. “She wants to do it.”

“Isn’t this a little flashy for a lawyer?” I asked Michelle. She was busy adjusting the lapels of my tuxedo-black suit, threaded with a faint metallic-blue windowpane pattern. Under the jacket, my shirt was royal purple with vertical stripes of pale lemon. French cuffs, with Canadian Maple Leaf gold coins for links. My tie was a Daliesque riot of color that you couldn’t look at for long without vertigo. The shoes were black mirrors, softer than most gloves.

“Not for the kind of lawyer you’re supposed to be, sweetheart,” she said, confidently. “And this is the piece de resistance.” She meant the black leather Tumi attache case, gusseted to expand to carry a laptop and whatever other tools a bar-certified extortionist might need.

The initials on the case were “ROM.” Roman Oscar Mestinvah wouldn’t come up on a Martindale-Hubbell search, but he was registered with OCA—the New York State Office of Court Administration. Admitted to practice in 1981, and a member in good standing. Roman was an elite lawyer, with a very narrow practice—

Gypsies only. I don’t know his real name—no Gypsy ever has only one—but the one he’d used since law school gave him those inside-joke initials.

If anyone speaking English called his office, his girl would know it was for me, and message me at Mama’s —my rental of his name included a few extra services.

“No diamond watch?” I said, sarcastically.

Michelle gave me one of her patented looks. “You’ll be driving a Porsche, not a Bentley,” she replied, as if that explained the Breitling chronograph she had handed me.

“I guess I’m ready,” I told her.

She stepped very close to me, stood on her toes, and kissed my cheek. “I’m proud of you, baby,” she whispered. “This is the real Burke now. My big brother. Coming home.”

“You want to go over it again?” I asked, as I plucked the EZ Pass transmitter from the inside windshield of Beryl’s metallic-silver Porsche and stowed it in the glove compartment before we hit the Holland Tunnel. She was wearing a navy-blue pinched-waist jacket over a beige pleated skirt, sheer stockings, and simple navy pumps. A successful woman, on her way to work.

“I’ve got it,” she said. “Don’t worry; I’ve been doing this kind of thing all my life.”

“Even before I—?”

“Years before,” she said, flatly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“To you? What for? You were just another hired man. And it wasn’t me paying your salary.”

“I would never have brought you back,” I said, hearing the defensiveness in my voice. “That happened before. More than once.”

“Sure.”

“It’s the truth,” I said. Hearing You know it is in my mind. Realizing it was Wolfe I was talking to.

“Even if I believed you, which I don’t, where were you going to take me? You think I hadn’t tried telling before then? Way before then? You know what that got me? More hired men, doing more things to me. Before they sent me back, that is. I’ll give you that much: You