“Say what?”
“Wednesday party. Every week.”
Gaspar nodded. Looked around the room as if he’d never attended a prom. “Don’t get me wrong. I love all these gorgeous women. But where are the men?”
“Too early. Events start at seven.”
“What events?”
“All events. The ballets, the symphony, state dinners, the theater. Whatever is going on in DC tonight where diplomats and dignitaries need escorts.”
“These gorgeous creatures are hookers?”
Gaspar seemed bewildered; she had no patience for silliness. Not now.
“This is
Too harsh.
He snapped back, “Little Miss Detroit knows all things Washington?”
Softer reply. “Four years of Georgetown law school for my JD/MBA left me no choice. DC overwhelms you even more than New York. Seeps into your bones. Never leaves.”
Kim led Gaspar to a line of guests awaiting their hostess poised amid a gaggle of beauties at the receiving line’s end. They shuffled forward after each guest was welcomed, ever closer to humiliation. Her heart pounded, and her breathing was shallow. Acid churned in her stomach. She wiped sweaty palms on her thighs. Her hands didn’t get drier.
The final group moved past their hostess. Straight ahead now was Marion Wallace. Perhaps the most famous courtesan to power since Madame de Pompadour. Vivid beyond reason. Exquisite alabaster skin. Amazing violet eyes and inky lashes. Lush full lips perpetually upturned. Leonine mane loosely flowing from crown below taut chin. Diamonds and sapphires adorned lobes and clavicle above perfect neckline.
Intimidating as hell.
And as poisonous as she’d been on Kim’s wedding day.
“Welcome to my home,” Marion said. A white-gloved hand was extended for a brief squeeze.
Kim’s voice deserted her. She squeezed back, and was released.
Gaspar stepped up. He said their names and handed over two business cards, one for each of them. Marion glanced at the cards and placed them on a silver tray next to her throne with all the others.
Gaspar said, “We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Wallace. Maybe five minutes. After you’ve received your guests.”
Marion exhibited the kind of grace under pressure that Kim had yet to master. “I’ll be pleased to help you if I can. We will talk privately in my salon when I’m free. In the meantime, please enjoy yourselves.”
Thus dismissed, an assistant waved them forward.
Was it possible Marion didn’t remember Kim at all?
Gaspar shifted his weight, and clasped his hands and said, “Let’s find a less conspicuous place to cool our heels. I feel like an underdressed prune in a loaf of angel food cake.”
Kim moved toward Marion’s salon. He followed, entranced by the spectacle.
She said, “Don’t worry. Dressed in FBI ugly, people will think we’re the security team. Totally ignorable.”
“Where’s our Gabrielle?” Gaspar asked, after putting his back to the wall. “She sounded fun. Maybe even affordable on a government salary.”
“She’ll find us, I’m sure.”
He said, “I talked to the boss. I need to fill you in. And Roscoe’s trying to reach you. Wouldn’t say why. And while you were girl-talking with Elle, I went through the rest of Sylvia’s mail.”
“Find anything?”
“I found a batch of envelopes forwarded to Margrave and returned to 4719 as undeliverable. All dated about three months ago, when our boy Alfred Lane came on the scene. What did Elle call him? A stickler? Looking like you were right about the demolished mailbox.”
“What else?”
“4720 yielded more. I’ll give you the blow-by-blow in the car later.” He fished out his phone. Pulled up a picture. “But it led me to this old mug shot.”
Kim examined the photo. The accused was identified as Susan Kane. She looked good. Classy. Well tended. Dazzling smile. Hair and makeup about the same. Like Marion Wallace, she hadn’t aged.
At six o’clock Kim noticed a change in the noise level. The crowd was thinning as escorts with prior engagements departed to meet their dates. Two or three well-attired men talked near the entrance where the reception line would form again.
Gaspar said, “Criminal records came up pretty quickly once I had the right name. Three counts of prostitution. Right here in DC, if you can imagine. Some big scandal. Pled guilty. Sentence suspended.”
Kim handed the phone back, suddenly weary. Two years after Van’s desertion. One year after her testimony. A senator and two Russian diplomats were caught having rough sex with hookers provided by lobbyists. Finally. But there were few arrests and fewer resignations. Sacrificial lambs only. Wright & Company closed, but only briefly.
Now six short years later Marion Wallace was conducting business as usual. Grievance was etched indelible on Kim’s heart.
“Kimmy! Honey! Look who I found!” The voice carried above the party sounds from twenty feet away.
Kim opened her eyes to see Elle approaching as swiftly as she could in the tight skirt, babbling like a cheerleader the entire distance, arm-in-arm with the unmistakable Sylvia Kent Black. Or Susan Kane. Or whoever she was.
Kim instantly recalled Elle’s bar talk.
Elle was ten feet away now. Sylvia looked reluctant. Then as if the moment was elaborately choreographed, the salon door opened wide revealing tasteful furnishings in historic hues.
Unchanged, Kim thought.
Surreal.
Peach and ivory brocade, gold tassels, and spring green stripes, all blended to please. Plush carpets, cozy fire, Marion Wallace reposed in the same green brocade Louis XV armchair, at the same end of the same rectangular grouping. On each side of her, white brocade sofas faced each other. Even the same silver tea service graced the coffee table between. The entire tableau made Kim woozy.
“Mr. Gaspar, Ms. Otto, Mrs. Wallace can see you now.” A well-coiffed assistant waved them inside using her entire body as if introducing another stage performer.
At that precise moment, Elle arrived, slightly breathless. She stopped at the open salon entrance and the assistant said, “Thank you, Gabrielle. Susan, Mrs. Wallace invites you to join her. This way everyone, please.”
Elle grinned, and released Sylvia’s arm. “Go ahead, honey. We’ll all visit later.”
What, Kim wondered now, was real about Sylvia Black? Not her name. Which was disorienting. Names mattered to Kim. They meant something. But this woman was never Sylvia Black at all. Had she known Van?
The assistant left the room and Sylvia approached Marion Wallace as a commoner might approach a queen, with obsequious smiles and air kisses, and no touching.
“You look wonderful, dear,” Sylvia said. “I’ve missed you. I’m so sorry we’ve been apart such a long time.”
Marion gave her the same official smile and the same gloved squeeze she’d given everyone else. As far as Kim knew, Marion Wallace never had any real friends and she never would. All business, all the time, now as then.
Sylvia perched herself on one sofa as young women learned to do in finishing school once upon a time. Skirt
