But I was freaking out for no reason: Daniel turned around with his hands full of tickets and printed opera programs... and a look of victory on his face. “I can’t believe they fell for it,” he whispered.
“Did you have to give our names?”
“I just made them up. We’re Nick and Nora Washington.”
“Washington?”
“I couldn’t remember their last name!”
“Charles. But I’m glad you didn’t remember. Might as well have signed in as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson!” I said, lightly slugging his arm.
“Ow!” he whispered, trying not to laugh. “Does it matter? She entered it in the computer and didn’t blink. Must have been the suit. Told you it was lucky.”
Indeed. All praise the suit. Maybe now I could relax and things would go smoothly.
We were the second to arrive in Darke’s party, Daniel confirmed with the ticket agent, and there was still plenty of time before the opera. After noticing some of the guests strolling through a preshow art exhibit that had been set up in the lobby, Daniel asked if I knew anything about the opera being performed. I opened the program and skimmed the introduction. Tonight’s show was a production of Puccini’sMadama Butterfly—the story of an underaged Japanese geisha named Butterfly and a jerky US naval officer who gets her pregnant and runs off to marry an American woman. Devastated, the geisha kills herself.
“Jesus. This is... heavy,” Daniel said, reading over my shoulder.
“It’s pretty horrible,” I agreed. “Why would anyone want to see this?”
I didn’t want him watching a teen girl offing herself onstage. I didn’t even want him knowing about it, but it was obvious when he spotted it in the program, because his shoulders stiffened.
“We’re not here to see the opera. We don’t even really have seats,” I reminded him. “Let’s go try to find Darke.”
“Yeah,” he said coolly. “Let’s do that.”
We headed past concession stands selling wine andMadama ButterflyT-shirts. Daniel’s strides were purposeful and angry, and I struggled to keep up in heels that I wasn’t accustomed to wearing. Why couldn’t the production have been something nice and easy? What aboutCarmen? Doesn’t everyone loveCarmen? Was all opera problematic? I wish I’d spent more time researching tonight’s performance than what clothes to wear to it.
Or maybe the whole thing was a dumb idea. The hall was filling up with people, and that made it harder to spot someone. We couldn’t find Darke, not in the lobby or on the promenade. Not sipping on wine or chatting with other people in his circle, the ones who were wearing tuxedos and long evening gowns.
“It’s getting swamped in here,” Daniel said. “Let’s split up. You make a pass back to ticketing, and I’ll go upstairs to the mezzanine. We’ll meet back here in five?”
I didn’t want to split up, but one moment Daniel was squeezing my hand and the next he was slipping through the crowd.
Every detective has setbacks. That’s what I tried to tell myself as I wandered through the crowd, eyes peeled for any sign of Darke or Ivanov. But after I’d covered all the ground we’d already walked, circled back around, and stopped at our designated meeting spot, I began to worry less about finding Darke and more about finding Daniel.
Five minutes passed. Ten...
I glanced at giant red banners cascading from the second floor. They were red and black, a dark silhouette of a woman in front of a red Japanese parasol that fanned out like the sun.
Like a sunset. Huh.
Something fired inside my head, and I remembered where I’d seen it before: at Mona’s place, on her wall of Broadway posters. It was from a play.
But that wasn’t why it was important. Because it wasn’t the only place I’d seen it.
I pulled out my opera program and quickly thumbed through it, stopping when I got to right page.
It was suddenly clear to me now. That framed poster I’d spied inside Darke’s house, with its yellow sunset inside a red border and its swirly, black shape blocking the sun... I was looking at it right now, reprinted in the opera program. The black shape I couldn’t quite identify when we were spying into his windows was clear now: It was a collection of brushstrokes, a vague Asian-inspired script that also doubled as a sketch.
A sketch of a helicopter.
Cherry’s words came back to me from when she was telling me about auditioning for a dancing role in an off-Broadway production at 5th Avenue Theatre: Miss Saigonhas a real helicopter that hangs from the rafters and descends onto the stage.
Nerves jangling, I skimmed the text of the opera program as tuxedos and gowns passed me. The program said thatMiss Saigonwas a Broadway musical set during the Vietnam War, a tragic tale of a doomed romance between an American GI and a Vietnamese bar girl who has his child after he abandons her.
Based on the operaMadama Butterfly.
