Floating City (28 page)

The entire rear of the kitchen was a series of windows and French doors leading out to a lawn dotted with a progression of curving flower beds. These earthen cutouts were arrayed with the architectural precision one found in the gardens of the châteaus of France. They were splendid even in the dead of winter.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” The young woman had moved beside Croaker as he stared out at the empty gardens. “Gardens are so austere in winter, and rather melancholy, I think.”

“I don’t know. I don’t have enough experience with them to have an opinion.”

She turned to him and extended a hand. “My name is Marie.”

He took it, found it cool and firm. Exactly as he had expected. “Lew Croaker.”

Marie nodded. “It’s awfully early to see the senator.”

“My business with him is urgent. Will I get to see him?”

“He’ll be down in five minutes.” Croaker did not know how she could know this or even how she had conveyed his presence to Dedalus. “I’ll be with the two of you during the interview.”

“Are you his lawyer?”

She laughed. “The senator doesn’t need a lawyer. He is one.”

He studied her carefully. If she was carrying a weapon, he couldn’t detect it. “Don’t you trust me? I’m with a federal agency. The
senator’s
agency.”

“Mr. Croaker, I am paid an exorbitant amount of money to be suspicious. Believe me, it’s nothing personal.”

“Terrific. I feel a whole lot better now.”

She had a good chuckle, deep and genuine. Even better. He liked people with a sense of humor. “You been with the senator long?”

“I’m too young to have been with him long. Just over a year.”

“What happened to your predecessor?”

Marie showed him a set of magnificent white teeth. “He wasn’t as good as I am.”

“Uncle.” Croaker raised his hands palm forward.

“Marie, have you been entertaining our friend?”

“Yes, sir.”

Croaker turned to see a tall, rangy man with white hair and a long, lugubrious face. The kitchen, large as it was, had changed its aspect the moment he strode into the room. He did not move like an old man, but rather with the enviably practiced step of the sailor upon a pitching deck. He was slightly stooped as if any space he occupied was too cramped for his personality. He had clear blue eyes, a large nose, and a wide slash of a mouth. Dressed in casual slacks, a flannel shirt, and a melton wool coat, he seemed more the gentleman farmer than one of the most high-powered men in the capital.

“He went through the electronics,” Marie said. “No weapons, no bugs. He’s clean.”

Dedalus nodded, then stuck out a hand, pumped Croaker’s aggressively. “Richard Dedalus, Mr. Croaker. I understand you’re from the agency.”

So there were microphones throughout the house; probably closed-circuit video cameras, as well. “Yes and no,” Croaker said.

“Oh?”

“The fact is, Mr. Lillehammer hired me to look into the murder of Dominic Goldoni because he was becoming suspicious of someone inside the agency.”

Dedalus nodded. “Probably worried about Leon Waxman, his director. Quite right, actually. Waxman was a mistake.”

That was the understatement of the century, Croaker thought, since Leon Waxman had turned out to be the supposedly deceased Johnny Leonforte.

“If you’re finished with your coffee, I need to take a look at the tennis court. This wet weather is playing havoc with the surface.”

The three of them moved toward the door. “Is Marie’s presence necessary?”

“After the debacle with Waxman, I’m very much afraid it is.”

They went out into the misty morning. Marie kept several paces back, her eyes constantly moving from the two of them to the landscape through which they walked. In the distance, Croaker could see the gardener. He had stopped his golf cart and was bending over to tend to an evergreen beside one end of the fenced-in tennis court.

“Better to talk about certain matters out of earshot,” the senator said, though whose earshot he didn’t make clear. Perhaps he was referring to his own electronic surveillance system. If so, that would be interesting.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Croaker said, “and since she works for the agency—or did when Lillehammer was alive—I’ve come to you.”

“Her name?”

“Vesper Arkham.”

The senator continued on, walking vigorously, but Croaker could see by the clouds of exhalation that he had begun to breathe hard.

“And what would be the nature of your business with Ms. Arkham?”

“It’s all connected with my ongoing investigation of Dominic Goldoni’s murder.”

The senator stopped abruptly. “Good God, man, Lillehammer is dead more than three months. Who gave you orders to continue?”

“No one ordered me to stop.”

Dedalus peered at him through the mist. “You intrigue me, Mr. Croaker.” He began to walk again. “Not many men would be so tenacious. Who, may I ask, is paying you?”

“No one.”

Dedalus grunted. “You’re either exceedingly curious or a man of principle. I’ll find out which soon enough.”

“I suppose you’ll order me to quit my investigation.”

Dedalus glanced at him sharply. “What gave you that idea?”

“It would make sense. You were a friend of Goldoni’s, you often entertained him and his sister Margarite. In fact, you sent your limo to meet her at the airport two days ago. He was up to something of a global nature, and I’m convinced that Vesper and perhaps Margarite as well are involved.”

“So I must be involved as well, is that it?” Dedalus shook his head. “I’m the big bad wolf with all the power to run things as I will, is that how this scenario you’ve built goes?” They came to the gate to the tennis court, and the senator opened it. “As you said, I was a friend of Dominic’s. That may sound odd to you—even hypocritical of me, a member of the United States Senate. But you didn’t know Dominic Goldoni. He was one hell of a man. Calling him a racketeer does him a great disservice. He was responsible for a lot of good, but don’t ask me for a list, I’m not the one to justify or rationalize what he did or was accused of doing.”

They went onto the rain-slick court and Dedalus stared gloomily at the clay. “I knew I should have laid Har-Tru. Look at this.”

“What do you know about Vesper Arkham?”

Dedalus produced a palmtop computer, punched in an access code. “She was born in Potomac, Maryland, thirty-two years ago to Maxwell and Bonny Harcaster. She graduated Yale, summa cum laude, did her doctorate work in clinical psychology at Columbia, postdoctorate work in parapsychology at—”

“
Para
psychology?”

Dedalus looked up. “Yes. She’s Phi Beta Kappa and a member of Mensa.”

“The brainiacs.”

“The national genius-level-and-beyond club.”

Croaker looked at Dedalus. “She ever married?”

His eyes flicked down to the palmtop, but Croaker could see he was not reading the screen. “Once, to a man named John Jay Arkham, a local Washington businessman, industrial demolition. It lasted just over a year.”

“And yet she kept his name.” Croaker took a look around the court. “Senator, did Margarite and Vesper come to see you two nights ago?”

“No.”

“Is that the truth?”

Dedalus put the computer away. “I may be in my seventies, but by God I don’t need Marie to throw you off my property. I’ll do it myself.”

“Just asking, Senator.”

“Yeah, yeah, save it for someone half my age.” He turned to Marie. “What do you think? Har-Tru?”

“Har-Tru.” That was the answer the senator wanted and she gave it to him without hesitation.

Croaker was beginning to get the measure of the man. Provoking strong emotions was just one of the tricks of the trade. Keen observation could be just as effective.

“Don’t make a mistake now. I’m not your enemy,” Dedalus said to Croaker. “I want you to continue your investigation precisely because Dominic was a friend of mine. If you want to speak with Vesper Arkham, I’ll arrange it. Just tell me when and where.”

“All right.” Croaker took a last look around. Marie was staring fixedly at him as if she might turn into an attack dog at any moment. The gardener had finished his inspection of the evergreens and was climbing back into the golf cart. “Noon today. As for where, I’ll phone you at eleven forty-five with instructions. Will you be here?”

“No. I’ll be in conference then.”

Croaker regarded him evenly. “If you’re sincere in wanting to help Dominic, you’ll take my call.”

Dedalus handed Croaker his card with his office address and phone number. “Just give my secretary your name; she’ll do the rest.”

The young Vietnamese woman was naked. She stood upon a low wooden platform draped in silk the color of the ocean. She wore no makeup save for lipstick—the scarlet bow of her mouth startlingly erotic against the copper color of her unblemished skin. Her legs were spread and her hands were on her hips. Her entire body was hairless, the skin shining in the lamplight with rose-scented oil.

In front of this vision was another woman, also naked, on all fours. Her head was down so that the long cascade of her black hair fell to the floor and obscured any sense of individuality or identity.

“Go on,” Rock said, to give himself the sense that they needed his encouragement. His eyes were slitted, his breathing slow and even as if he were in a meditative trance. Outside the walls of this locked room the business being transacted in Floating City spun on, in sunlight or in monsoonlike rain, he didn’t know which and didn’t care. Let his partner take care of business. The only reality was in here.

The standing woman took her hands away from her hips, placed them on the buttocks of the second woman, who faced Rock. She licked her full lips as her hands disappeared between the other woman’s buttocks. Her knees bent as she went about her work. Rock stared at them, his eyes glittering, imagining what was taking place. After an interval, the woman on all fours gasped and the cascade of her hair swung back and forth across the silk.

“Is she ready?”

The woman with the hairless body nodded wordlessly. Her dark nipples were erect.

Rock stepped onto the platform. He was as aware of the sensuous feel of the silk beneath his bare feet as he was of the tightness in his groin.

He put his hands on the woman’s hairless body. “What about you?”

It was difficult not to be intimidated by Rock. He was tall, well-muscled, with the shoulders of a weight lifter. His hair, still dirty blond, was cut so short on the sides that the scalp beneath had been burnished by the sun. He was tan, which made his blue eyes appear unnaturally luminous. The tan failed to completely mask the parallel lines of scars on his cheeks, the product of a severe case of untreated adult acne. But rather than making him ugly, they increased the fierceness of his appearance, as if he were an African tribal chieftain ribboned with crude facial tattoos.

“I need you.” Her mahogany eyes held his as she continued to work on her companion. “Make me ready.”

Rock reached up, unwound her hair, pulled it gently so that her head came back. He kissed her but did not like that he could not press up against her, so he pushed the second woman roughly away. He heard her little cry of surprise and disappointment, and he was immediately hard.

The woman with the hairless body reached down and pulled him between her thighs, trapping him there. She swung her hips provocatively from side to side so that he felt the exquisite friction of the soft skin on the insides of her thighs. His blood was on fire.

Then he felt a tickling sensation between his legs. Without looking he knew that the second woman had crawled up to him. It was time. He thrust himself into the woman with the hairless body, hearing the breath go out of her, feeling one leg lifted, curled around his hip.

The tickling progressed up and down his legs, teasingly, reaching higher with each progressive wave, until the second woman’s fingertips and tongue reached the apex. Lights exploded behind his eyes as he felt the pressure. His thrusts were deep, ragged, almost uncontrollable. Fingers and tongue insinuating, penetrating as he penetrated. It was all too much, and he howled over and over in heartfelt release.

The three of them collapsed in a sweaty mass. He smelled their musk, watched, his heart still palpitating as the two women entwined their bodies like serpents, slithering, tongues flickering, pleasuring each other, watching as he grew hard again. They used him as he had used them, doing to him whatever they wanted, whatever gave them pleasure until right up to the end, when he took charge again, rearing up as they fell back, accepting his seed as if it were wine.

Afterward, saturated with their fluids, he dropped into a sleep that was, unfortunately, not dreamless. There, in a place he could not name and a time he preferred not to remember, his father stalked him through dark tenement rooms, cloying with putrefaction, inhabited by cockroaches and rats.

Just remember I made you what you are.
His father’s fierce voice echoed off the filthy walls, becoming more and more of a physical presence, until the room Rock found himself in was filled with blood, and he drowned.

He awoke with such terror that he screamed at the drowsy, naked women, beating them insanely until he drove them, tearstained and bloody, from his presence.

When Chief Inspector Van Kiet arrived at the Lang Ca Ong, it was with the face of the devil himself. If he were fuming any harder, steam would have been pouring out of his ears.

“It’s difficult enough having a semblance of a private life without people like you dragging me out of my home at all hours,” he said to Tachi. This was before he saw Nicholas and let out a groan. “You’re an evil omen, you know that?” He turned back to the
oyabun.
“If you ever owe me a favor, I swear I will ask you for permission to kill this man.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Tachi said dryly. “I’ll try to keep it in mind.”

The skeletons of the whales loomed above them, dark and grotesque.

“Must we stay here?” Van Kiet glanced around nervously. “I like to keep moving, especially at night.”