Eyeshot (26 page)

“
Somebody's
got prosecutoritis.”

“Let him play, Sam. That much sweeter when we jump his ass.” She followed him across the parking lot. “So why are we here, baby, you get us a room?”

He smiled in a way that let her know the thought had crossed his mind. “Thought we might have a talk with Caplan's Aunt Georgie. Get some background on the bastard, I believe were Crick's exact words. Look for a sweet spot.”

“Anything to get out of the heat.”

“Got
yours
quashed, did you?” Sam waved her forward, through the automatic door into the lobby of the Hilton. A bellboy looked at them, inquiring.

“Where's Suite A, the Alabama Room?” Sam asked.

Sonora shivered. It was ice cold in the lobby.

The bellboy gave a knowing look. “You're here for the Babylon Models Internacionale?” He eyed Sam's suit and haircut. Looked Sonora up and down.

“I don't think so,” Sam said.

“They're the ones who booked the Alabama Room,” the bellboy said.

Sonora shrugged. “I guess that's who we want then.”

She headed in the direction the bellboy pointed—around a fountain and huge potted plants and a gift shop that sold toothpaste for over three dollars per tiny tube.

“Not you,” Sonora said, leading the way.

The doors to the Alabama Room were propped open. A blonde in a black power suit stood next to a table, arguing with a man in a brown corduroy jacket. His hair was cut a la
GQ
, and he had the careful beard stubble Don Johnson made popular in the old
Miami Vice
television series.

“I did the last one,” the man said. “Why won't you take this one?”

The woman shook her head. Her lips were pressed tight. “Not in my contract.”

“But why? You shy or something?”

She shook her head, glanced at the clipboard.

The man caught sight of Sonora, flashed a smile as reassuring as a shark fin in the water. “Are you here for the seminar?”

She glanced into the Alabama Room. A coffee urn was set up on a table at one end of the room. Metal folding chairs were placed in front of a dais that was bracketed by a table and chairs on either side. A video was playing on a television at the front of the room—forgettable music with a driving beat and some kind of fashion show where thin girls were gliding down the runway with plastic fruit on their heads.

“We're looking for Georgie Fontaine,” Sam said.

“Go on in and sit down,” the man said. “She'll be along after the talk.”

“What talk?” Sam's voice was rougher than usual.

Probably suspicious of men who wore corduroy in the dead of summer. Sonora peered into the Alabama Room, where an aura of nervous hope and expectation was as thick as the smell of coffee in the corner. Most of the metal chairs were full, girls of all ages with their moms beside them. There were a few lone males, most of them in their teens or early twenties.

Everyone was dressed up. Little girls had their hair piled on their heads, teenage girls had curled and moussed enough for a Vidal Sassoon convention. They all studied each other out of the corners of their eyes, like contestants in a Miss America competition.

Sonora looked at Sam, saw he'd have no chance at Miss Congeniality if he kept that scowl on his face.

“What is this, anyway?” she said.

Corduroy jacket didn't like her question. “Aren't you here for the seminar?” he asked. “If you'll fill out this form—”

Sonora ignored the pencil and clipboard he tried to hand her and flipped her ID. “Police Specialist Blair, Cincinnati Police. We're here to see Georgie Fontaine, and would appreciate it if you'd track her down.”

Corduroy jacket had gone very wary, but the blonde was paying attention. She pointed off to the right.

“Headed that way for a smoke.”

“Thanks,” Sonora said.

Sam followed, head swiveling to give the blonde a second look. A dark hallway veered off to the left. Sonora smelled cigarette smoke, saw a sign that said
REST ROOMS
. She looked into the dark corridor, saw a woman leaning up against the wall, inhaling from a cigarette as if it was the sustenance of her life.

“Georgie Fontaine?”

“Who wants to know?” The voice held the deep husk of a veteran smoker, the self-confident amusement of a jaded woman of the world, and a hint of curiosity. “You guys aren't the cops I talked to, are you?”

Sam walked over to the wall the woman had propped a very nice shoe against, and showed her his ID. “Detective Delarosa,” he waved a hand at Sonora, “and Detective Blair.”

“Hell, you are the cops. Sorry. I had to get away from the youngsters, they've been bitching at each other all day. Should have retired when I had the chance.”

“Could we go somewhere and talk?” Sonora asked.

“Let's get some coffee in that little sports bar by the gift shop.” She glanced at Sonora. “Duncan should be giving his spiel by now. He talks slow, they won't need me for a while. Unless he's got the girl doing it.” She peered around the corner, as if reluctant to show herself.

“It's not in her contract,” Sam said.

The crowd in the sports bar was thin. The air was filled with stale cigarette smoke. All of the tables were sticky with beer rings and crumbs, and wadded napkins constituted most of the table decorations. No doubt the night before had been a big success.

A bartender moved slowly on legs like jelly, wiping glasses dry. He did not seem happy to see them.

Georgie Fontaine took the cleanest table in the far left corner of the room, away from a noisy group of men wearing the kelly green pants and knit shirts that proclaimed golfers. There were four of them, two were smoking. They drank beer and Beefeater martinis and watched the tournament on television. Sonora's head began to ache.

She took the seat at the table facing the television, because she knew that if Sam could see it he would watch it, no matter what was on. A smattering of applause broke out from the large screen as a man with a potbelly made a difficult shot, and the announcer spoke with the kind of muted enthusiasm used by disc jockeys at classical radio stations.

Sonora put her elbows on the table, felt water soaking through the sleeve of her blouse.

Sam had his recorder out, and Georgie Fontaine was reeling off her name, address, and serial number. Age sixty-two.

“Not possible,” Sam said.

“What isn't possible, sweetie?”

“I couldn't have heard that right. You're forty-two.”

“This is what sixty-two looks like in the nineties.” But she smiled at him tolerantly, as she would at a son.

“Just for the record,” Sonora said. “Gage Caplan is your nephew.”

Fontaine lit up another cigarette, took a quick puff. “Only one I got. Rest are nieces, I have three of those. Easier to buy for at Christmas.”

“Are you and Gage close?” Sonora said.

Fontaine's eyes narrowed.

Could be from the smoke, Sonora thought. But she wondered.

“Never see him.”

“Why is that?” Sam asked.

She waved a hand. “I work long hours. He works long hours. He's done very well. I'm proud of him.” She did sound proud. Surprised too.

“You see much of your nieces?”

Fontaine rolled her eyes. “All the time.” It sounded like a complaint but she smiled fondly. “Baby-sit their kids when I have some time, which isn't all that often.”

She took another drag on the cigarette, glanced over at the bartender. He avoided looking at their table.

“See much of Mia?” Sam asked.

Fontaine thought about it. “I saw her once at some Christmas thing. It was right after her mother died, and Gage was kind of at loose ends. Poor baby, I never saw a kid look so tiny and lost. She cried a lot, asking for grandmama. The other one, Gage's mom, is dead. I remember wondering why he didn't have her down with Micah's folks for Christmas—I think they live in the hills or something. Tennessee or Virginia.”

“Kentucky,” Sonora said.

“Whatever.”

Sam grimaced but did not say a word. Sonora wondered how often Mia had asked for her grandmother, wondered if she'd learned not to ask.

“You said Gage's mother is dead?” Sam asked.

Fontaine nodded. “Very tragic. Gage was just a little guy when it happened, six, I think, if that old. I think he was in kindergarten. Kimmie was maybe seven months pregnant. She'd miscarried once and was trying like crazy to have another child.”

“She was your sister?”

Fontaine shook her head, waved away a cloud of smoke. “No, my sister has all the girls. My brother married Kimmie when Gage was four or five. Her first husband just ran off and left them. They were living in the projects and really going it hard. Alex was very comfortable, financially, my parents had money and, you know, they gave us a very nice life. Got us started when we left college, then left us alone. We both went into business—me into modeling, then running this modeling school. Alex went into law. Specializing in bankruptcy. Consider the last decade or two. He sure hit the right specialty. And loves it. Believe it or not, people need a white knight when they're going bankrupt. Creditors get mean if you don't yank their leash, and if people don't know the law they aren't protected. I know he does a lot of work out of pocket. Which he can do, thanks to good old mom and dad.”

She spoke of her brother with a great deal of fondness, Sonora thought. She spent a lot of time with her nieces. And yet had almost no contact with Gage. Interesting. Was it because he was not really family, the blood issue, or was it something else?

“What happened to your sister-in-law? How did she die?”

Fontaine's face settled into the worn grooves of old grief. She stubbed her cigarette out in a gold foil ashtray that was full of other butts, some lipstick-stained, at least two shades of red.

When Fontaine spoke, her voice was matter of fact. “She drowned in the bathtub.”

52

Sam looked over at the bartender, who nodded and headed over. “How could she die in a bathtub? She epileptic? Pass out?”

Fontaine shook her head. The bartender stood next to Sam, a question in his eyes.

“Coffee,” Sam said, pointing at himself and Sonora. He looked at Fontaine.

“Bring me a whisky sour.” She blew a smoke ring, looked at the waiter. “And wipe the table, if you would, please.” Fontaine moved a dirty glass to one side, and the bartender gave her a mournful look, as if he knew he should never have come over.

“Alex and Kimmie had this big ole house. Brand new, out in Indian Hills, land all around. It was a long drive for him to the office, but Kimmie had her heart set on living there. Gage went from the projects to this enormous house. And Kimmie was pregnant when they were married, and they lost the baby, tore them both all up to hell. I know it was hard on Gage. They had this nursery they put together—Kimmie never had anything, so she outfits her nursery with everything she ever wanted when her first was coming along.”

Sonora nodded. “How did Gage feel about all of this?”

The bartender came back with a plastic tub. He put all the glasses in the tub, tossed the ashtray in on top, and wiped the table with a drippy rag, leaving a swath of wet beads for everyone to dodge.

“Drinks be right up,” he said.

Sonora reached into her purse for a bottle of Advil.

Fontaine was thinking. “That's kind of hard to say. He didn't seem to not like Alex, but he didn't seem to like him either. Like Alex was part of the furniture. I know he was kind of clingy with Kimmie, I remember he used to watch her all the time. If she was in the room, Gage was always in touching distance. He was a smart kid. Ahead for his age. Coming out of a bad school, but still sharp.

“I know he kept asking why Kimmie didn't have all that baby stuff when he was born, and she kept trying to explain it was because of Alex. He never did seem to get it. He and Kimmie had this thing where he was the old baby, and this was the new baby. But instead of making him feel better, it seemed to make it worse. He was really … bothered. Kimmie and Alex talked about it, but they were so distracted, so in love and excited about the new baby. I know I was worried about Gage getting short shrift there, and I think Mom said something to Alex. But Kim was like a little girl in a fairy tale and I don't think her feet were touching ground. She and Alex were so obsessed with each other it was nauseating. We were all just kind of tolerating them till the ‘honeymoon' cooled off. And then she lost the baby. And it was like their whole world went dark.

“They locked the nursery door and wouldn't let anyone go in there, and Alex took Kimmie off for a cruise and left Gage with my mother.”

The drinks came. Fontaine sighed softly when she saw the whisky sour. The waiter left plastic cartons of cream and Sam took a drink of steaming black coffee and stacked the creamers into a short and stocky white tower. Sonora opened one, poured it into her coffee.

Fontaine snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot. I brought pictures.” She rummaged in her purse, a large, shapeless leather purse that looked to have endless capacity and was worn down and soft with age.

She took out an envelope with a breath mint stuck to one side, opened the flap, removed a stack of prints. She laid the pictures out in a row like a hand of solitaire and she snapped them as she laid them down, just like you might with playing cards. Sonora thought of Butch Winchell, lining up pictures of Julia and her two baby girls.

Fontaine pointed a fingernail coated with deep red polish. “This one's cute.”

Gage, age three, sat cross-legged in a dingy living room. There was a television on behind him, and the kind of couch people put out by the side of the road (or, Sonora thought, in her living room). Gage's hair was long, curly, and his face was round and full, cheeks chubby like a Gerber baby. Even then he looked like a little linebacker, thick sturdy legs, a solid build. He had a hand crammed deep into a box of Cracker Jack's and there was a piece of caramel corn on the front of his shirt. He was smiling and happy and seemed not to have a care in the world.