“Billie... I’m so sorry about what happened in the alley. I should have spotted them,” Sam said, his eyes wide with apology. “I hold myself responsible.”
“Sam, neither of us saw them,” she stressed. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Billie raised her glass, took a sip, felt it burn. She locked eyes with her assistant again for a moment. He was solid, that Sam. So solid. It wasn’t just his size or his ability to toss a man around like a rag doll, either. He appeared entirely unfazed by what she was asking him—to pack a gun. To dispose of a body. She was beginning to think he was one in a million. She looked away and sat back in the couch. “And it was the work of Vincenzo Moretti,” she mused.
Sam leaned forward, thinking, holding his glass tightly, frowning. “Might explain why he was at The Dancers last night.”
Billie could not have been more shocked by this revelation. “What do you mean?” She put her glass down too suddenly on the side table, and the amber liquid nearly washed over the rim. “What do you mean: He was at The Dancers?”
“He was there. I told you.” Now the memory emerged, vaguely. Sam had said something about an Italian. They’d got tied up in somepointless conversation about prisoners of war and civilians and the like.
“It was Vincenzo Moretti you saw? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I did say so,” Sam protested.
“You said you saw an Italian. Not all Italians are Vincenzo Moretti.”
In Moretti’s case all distrust and animosity were certainly warranted. If the dealings of Georges Boucher Auction House were wrapped up with Vincenzo Moretti somehow, that brought it down several pegs, too, in Billie’s eyes. Something always smelled bad when he was around, and that display in the alley was just the sort of shoddy parting committee he’d organize. If he was at The Dancers, he could have been the one who’d spiked her drink, come to think of it. If someone was fast enough and slimy enough they could have spiked it. And in a high-class joint like The Dancers. How galling. And the doorman had ended up staring at death in his own room after work. Beneath all that glitz, the place was rotten. Wasn’t that always the way.
Blasted Moretti.“He’s been tailing me. I didn’t figure it out until I saw him outside this morning. One of the cops who came, a Constable Dennison, knew he was there, I think. I think it was Moretti at the Strand Arcade, too. He’s been searching me out all over town,” she said, the realization hitting her.
“Bloody Moretti couldn’t find a grand piano in a one-room house,” Sam snipped.
“Yes, he is rather an idiot,” Billie agreed. “But a dangerous one.”
More dangerous to her than she’d reckoned. Moretti hadn’t faced them himself, of course. He’d sent some low-rent thugs for the job. She almost felt sorry for them. Almost. No, Moretti didn’t thinkmuch of her; that was evident. What would he make of the story his rent-a-beating boys returned with? Was Moretti behind the dead body switch? Were the two things related? Who was his client? And where was Georges Boucher in all this? Was he the one giving orders, footing the bill? Or was this personal somehow? What would make Moretti go this far?
“I didn’t like that answer about the boy,” Billie added.
Sam looked up.
“It’s too late for him.I wonder what he meant by that.”
“You don’t think...?”
“That Adin Brown is dead? Perhaps. I rather hope not.” Billie frowned deeply. “When’s your date?” she asked, breaking from her darker ruminations and looking at her wristwatch. Her assistant had the unpleasant task of disposing of Con Zervos beforehand. The sun had set and now the world outside her window was nearly dark. Soon it would be time.
“I’ll cancel,” he replied.
“No. Don’t. Please. I mean, if you can manage it. It would be better for you to go about things as normal after...” After disposing of the body. “You should try to take your mind off things tonight. I really do appreciate all you’ve done. I hope you aren’t too sore tomorrow.” He had a few reasons to feel that way.
“I’m fine. I’m worried about you, though.”
“Well, I can’t have that, Sam. I can take care of myself. You’ll have to trust me there.” The way he’d looked at her with her gun trained on two terrified men told her he was starting to get the idea. “Thanks for joining me for a drink. And thank you for what you’ll do tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow at the office, yes? You’re not thinking twice about the job, are you? I’d understand if you were.”
“What?” He looked almost hurt. “No way, Billie. You’ve got me. If you want me.”
She let that sink in.
“I’ll do what I have to, and then I’ll go out if that’s best. You watch your back, okay?” he added.
Billie thrust her whisky forward again and they clinked a second time. They drained their glasses and, with a somewhat less awkward exchange, parted ways. She shut the door behind him and paused. What a day. Billie peeled off her stockings and dress. She should have been positively shattered by the day that was, she reflected, particularly following such a disturbed night, but that electricity seemed to be running over all of her nerves again. There were too many unanswered questions to simply leave it be for the evening, even for something as restoring as rest. Her body needed some tending to with soap and arnica and perhaps another restoring glass of that good scotch, even if she did have to drink it alone. It was medicinal after all. Then she had to go out, too.
Tonight she would visit the death house.
Nineteen
Billie ventured to Circular Quay Westand stepped into the shadows of the dark-brick- and sandstone-trimmed arches of the morgue on Mill Lane. The night was heavy and warm. It was after midnight.
