"I'll call a tow truck." Brent pulled out his phone and scowled at it. "Damn rural hicks. What kind of place is this that I can't get a signal? This isn't the wilderness."
"Could be the rain."
"I guess we'll have to wait it out. Either that or walk to the nearest place where we can use a phone."
"We passed a place not far back," Joe said sullenly. "Maybe we can go over there and get them to call us a tow truck."
"I was hoping you'd want to wait until the rain stopped."
"Why?" Joe said. "We're already wet. Waiting here won't do us any good. Besides, knowing our luck, if we wait here, that'll be enough time for Elise to get away again."
"Yeah, but the rain won't go on like this all night. Let's give it half an hour and see what happens."
"Wait here, if you want to," Joe said. "But I'm tired of always waiting, always losing her. I'm going to go see if I can get to a phone. Or hell, maybe I'll just walk to Ursula's place." He made to climb over Brent again, but Brent turned up his collar, threw open the door and got out first, closing his eyes against the pulsating beat of the rain. Joe jumped down behind him and slammed the door. "This way," he said. Wrapping his jacket around himself, he started up the road.
Brent caught up and strode silently beside him. After several minutes, Joe pointed to a spot across a field, dimly visible through the rain. "Maybe they'll let us use their phone."
"Where's the road to get to it?"
"We can cut across that pasture."
"It's going to be muddy."
"Did you see any other places? How far is it to where Ursula Docet lives?"
"Pretty far," Brent admitted. "It's at least another two miles after turning down that street we passed."
"And that street was half a mile back, if it's even the right one." Joe crossed the street, leaped the ditch, and inspected the barbed wire fence. Calmly, he pulled one wire up, and the other down, bent over and slipped through. His jacket caught on the tendrils of a dead vine but he reached behind and pulled it free.
Brent had been standing on the edge of the ditch, gauging the distance and the slipperiness of his shoes. With Joe watching, he got a running start and cleared the ditch easily. His coat became tangled on the barbed wire fence though, and Joe was compelled to come back and hold the top wire. Once on the other side, Brent straightened his coat, useless against the cold in its sodden state, and the two men set off in the direction of the small frame house Joe had seen from the road.
They tramped along in silence, dripping hair plastered to their skulls, shoes squelching in the mud. After what seemed like miles they arrived at the house, which turned out to be just a drab little shack. Joe pounded on the door. Nothing. Brent tried to peer in a window but could see no light or movement from within. "Give it up," he said as Joe began banging on the door again. "There's no one home."
Joe slammed his fist into the door, then grabbed the knob and rattled it, to no avail. He looked around wildly, all composure gone. "Don't tell me I'm stuck out here, soaking wet, freezing my ass off in the goddamn rain because of you!"
"Hey, I didn't say we should come here," Brent said. "I wanted to stay in the truck until the rain let up, but you--"
"Shut up, damn you! Just shut the fuck up!" Joe stomped around in the mud, splashing muck up to his knees, then took another swipe at the door, bruising his knuckles this time. "If you'd have looked at the map or wiped off the goddamn window like I told you to, or better yet if you'd have just left my wife alone--" Joe stepped back and took a powerful kick at the door, throwing his weight into it with a fury that splintered the wooden frame around the lock. There was a loud popping sound as the door gave way. Joe stumbled, made a grab for the doorknob, leaned into it for support and stumbled again as the door swung inward. He stopped uncertainly in the doorway.
"Now you've done it," Brent said.
"It was an accident." His anger suddenly spent, Joe gazed in shock at the place where the frame had splintered. "Damn cheap wood."
"Right."
"It is! What the hell kind of idiot uses yellow pine on their front door?"
"Look, will you just let me in?"
Joe gave Brent a sanity-questioning stare. "What do you mean, let you in? We're closing this door and getting the hell out of Dodge, before whoever lives here comes home."
"Oh, come on. Let's at least wait it out, now that we're in. We can use their phone. We'll leave as soon as it lets up."
"Man, now I know you're nuts."
Brent pushed past him and stood dripping in the shelter of abbreviated entryway. "I'm not crazy," he said. "Just cold and wet. Now will you please shut the door?"
"Look, I know we've done a lot of shady things since we got into this whole mess, but this is going too far. Get back on this side of the door. I'll close it as well as I can, we'll go back to the truck and hope for the best."
Brent shrugged out of his coat, dropping it to the floor with a splat. "You'll be standing there waiting on me for a long time because I'm staying here until it lets up." He glanced around the quiet, dusty room. "It doesn't look like anyone really lives here, anyway. It's probably someone's second home, for when they want to get away for a little bit. I bet no one's been here in months."
"That doesn't make it right."
"What's the problem? You didn't hesitate to break into Perry's place."
"He was a crook. If he'd caught us, the worst that would've happened is we would've had to fight him. Whoever lives here is probably an honest man who'll call the cops as soon as he'd look at us."
"I'm sure if the owner was here he'd let us in, with this rain. And besides," Brent ran his fingers through his dripping hair, "to be quite honest, I really don't care anymore. Let them come and arrest me if that's what they want to do, but I'm not going back out there until I'm warm and dry and the rain has stopped."
Joe considered. "I guess if we don't mess anything up, it can't hurt to hang out here until it clears. When we leave, we'll put some money on the kitchen counter to pay for the door."
Chapter Forty-One
They drove in silence, winding through the local streets. "Any luck from that phone call to Selene?" Joe finally asked.
"No." Brent sighed in frustration. "She was polite about it, but she says she spent hours on the phone and couldn't find anything under the new name and passport number. I told her to throw all that stuff away and give it a try under her real name. We should know something more by tomorrow afternoon."
Joe stopped for a light. "Well, that'll be good, in case Ursula is another dead end."
The light changed and Joe hit the gas. The truck sped forward, sending up a spray of water as he turned onto the access road. After entering the freeway and settling into his lane, Joe said, "I don't know if I can take much more of this running around and her always being one jump ahead of us."
Brent settled back in his seat and adjusted the lapels of his damp coat. "I think I'm just about worn out, too."
"You know, what really gets me is that we've been gone for the better part of a week and I feel like we're no closer to finding her than we were at the beginning. I don't understand why everyone is trying to cover for her. I don't mean to brag, but isn't it pretty obvious I'm trying to help?"
"I don't know," Brent said. "It's always surprised me how loyal people are to Elise. It seems like no matter what she's done, she can always charm someone into giving her what she needs. Lord knows she didn't do anything to deserve the way I helped her over the years."
"Then why did you do it?"
"I could ask the same of you."
"What do you mean?"
"Why are you persisting in this? A lot of men would've said good riddance by this point, knowing what you know."
Joe didn't answer right away. He continued to drive, staring intently at the road ahead, tiny workings in the muscles around his eyes and mouth the only clues that he was deep in thought.
"And don't say it's because you love her," Brent added.
"But I do love her."
"Love has its limits."
"Does it?" Joe asked. "Seems a shame if it does."
Brent said nothing and stared at his hands.
They drove for the next hour in silence as the sky grew darker and the rain continued to fall. Joe turned on his headlights but they didn't help much. "It's going to be fun, trying to find this place off a farm road in the dark, in the rain."
"Well, we can't wait until morning. We've lost too much time already."
"I know. Just help me out with the directions, will you? That way I can focus on the road. I think I see our exit up ahead."
They pulled off the freeway and turned onto a farm road. Without the benefit of street lights, they had to slow almost to a crawl in order to see. Joe turned on his brights and squinted.
"You're going to want to keep to the left at that fork up there," Brent said.
"Looks like we're going pretty far out into the country."
"Just wait. I think the next turn will be onto a one-lane road, if this map is any indication."
As they turned onto the left fork of the road, the rain, which had been slackening, began coming down harder as if making up for lost time. Joe slowed again and increased the speed of the wipers, to little effect. "Are you going to be able to see where we need to turn?"
"I think it's right up here a little ways. See that stop sign by the tree?"
Joe eased onto the narrow road, his brows drawing together in concentration. "This is a dangerous street in this weather. No lines, no curbs, nothing."
Brent agreed. "They should develop out here. Get one of those rural improvement grants or something. It would improve their property values."
"Do we have to stay on this road for very long?"
Brent glanced at the map. "No, it looks like we'll be turning again soon."
"I wonder if Ursula keeps horses," Joe said, gesturing toward a stable set back from the road.
Brent shrugged. "She could do anything, for all we know."
"And we know nothing," Joe's voice took on an edge. "I hate feeling this way, like everything I thought I knew was wrong."
Suddenly Brent leaned forward, straining to see the road through the rain. "Oh, hell."
"Don't tell me we passed it."
"Yeah, I think we did."
"How can you tell?"
"Didn't we just pass a cross-street?"
"If you can call it that. It was just a little gravel path."
"Well, I think maybe we went too far. Turn around and go back. We haven't passed it by much."
"Turn around where?" Joe gestured at the road, empty of cross streets or driveways.
"Just turn around here in the road. There's no traffic."
Joe looked around doubtfully, then stopped the truck, threw it into reverse, cut the wheel and started to back up. "Reach back there and wipe off the rear window. I'm not getting a clear picture of where I'm going."
Brent twisted around in his seat. "It's okay. You're miles away from the ditch."
Joe released the brake and began inching backward, casting occasional glances behind him, but trusting Brent's reassuring words to "keep going, keep going," until suddenly the left rear wheel hit slippery gravel, and the back end of the truck lurched to one side. Before he could get his foot on the brake, the right wheel slipped backward, too, and the truck slid neatly into the ditch, with only the right front tire remaining at road level.
Cursing, Joe turned on the four-wheel drive. He hit the gas and the tires spun, but nothing happened. The rear wheels embedded themselves in the mud, the left front wheel spinning on open air, clipping a few weeds, the right front tire unable to find a hold in the slippery gravel of the shoulder. After gunning the engine a few times, Joe stomped on the brake and put the truck into park. He turned around in his seat and fixed Brent with an icy glare. "Get out and find something to put under the wheels."
Brent sucked in his breath but didn't argue. He opened the door and jumped into ankle-deep mud. He winced at the cold rain beating on his face and dribbling down the back of his neck as he walked to the edge of the ditch. The wheels were buried almost to the axle. Since there was no point trying to help from that end, he went around to the front. The left front wheel had a few inches of space between it and the side of the ditch, and after assessing the situation, Brent looked around, finding a few small rocks and branches, but nothing substantial to fill the gap between tire and ground. After a few minutes, he returned to the truck and climbed in. "I couldn't find anything."
"You must not have looked hard enough. Look again."
"Man, I'm telling you, it's hopeless. Those rear wheels are in too deep. Even if I could find something big enough to put under the front one, I don't think it would give enough leverage to pull the back end out. We're going to need a tow truck."
"If you can't find something to put under the wheels, I suggest you get out and push, since you're the one that got us into this mess in the first place."
Brent shoved his dripping hair off his forehead. "Look, you don't have to tell me, okay? I feel like an idiot, and if I thought wading in mud up to my knees to push this truck would do any good, I'd be doing it. Go look for yourself if you don't believe me."
Joe gazed steadily at Brent long enough for the drumming of the rain on the roof to grow louder, the curtains of rain nearly opaque, until it seemed the entire gray, deafening world had closed in around them and they were in the last dry place on earth. Brent picked at his soaking pants and examined the toes of his muddy shoes, then he raised his head and met Joe's eyes.
"Move over and let me out," Joe said.
Brent moved as far back in the seat as he could so Joe could climb over him and get out on the passenger side, since getting out on the driver's side was out of the question. Joe jumped down and slammed the door behind him, leaving Brent alone, dripping and shivering.
After a few minutes, Joe climbed back in, soaked to the skin. He crawled over to the driver's seat, started the engine and turned on the heater. He stretched his hands toward an air vent, flexing his fingers in the warm air. Brent leaned forward and did the same. "What do you think?" Brent finally asked.
"I think we're screwed."
"No." Brent sighed in frustration. "She was polite about it, but she says she spent hours on the phone and couldn't find anything under the new name and passport number. I told her to throw all that stuff away and give it a try under her real name. We should know something more by tomorrow afternoon."
Joe stopped for a light. "Well, that'll be good, in case Ursula is another dead end."
The light changed and Joe hit the gas. The truck sped forward, sending up a spray of water as he turned onto the access road. After entering the freeway and settling into his lane, Joe said, "I don't know if I can take much more of this running around and her always being one jump ahead of us."
Brent settled back in his seat and adjusted the lapels of his damp coat. "I think I'm just about worn out, too."
"You know, what really gets me is that we've been gone for the better part of a week and I feel like we're no closer to finding her than we were at the beginning. I don't understand why everyone is trying to cover for her. I don't mean to brag, but isn't it pretty obvious I'm trying to help?"
"I don't know," Brent said. "It's always surprised me how loyal people are to Elise. It seems like no matter what she's done, she can always charm someone into giving her what she needs. Lord knows she didn't do anything to deserve the way I helped her over the years."
"Then why did you do it?"
"I could ask the same of you."
"What do you mean?"
"Why are you persisting in this? A lot of men would've said good riddance by this point, knowing what you know."
Joe didn't answer right away. He continued to drive, staring intently at the road ahead, tiny workings in the muscles around his eyes and mouth the only clues that he was deep in thought.
"And don't say it's because you love her," Brent added.
"But I do love her."
"Love has its limits."
"Does it?" Joe asked. "Seems a shame if it does."
Brent said nothing and stared at his hands.
They drove for the next hour in silence as the sky grew darker and the rain continued to fall. Joe turned on his headlights but they didn't help much. "It's going to be fun, trying to find this place off a farm road in the dark, in the rain."
"Well, we can't wait until morning. We've lost too much time already."
"I know. Just help me out with the directions, will you? That way I can focus on the road. I think I see our exit up ahead."
They pulled off the freeway and turned onto a farm road. Without the benefit of street lights, they had to slow almost to a crawl in order to see. Joe turned on his brights and squinted.
"You're going to want to keep to the left at that fork up there," Brent said.
"Looks like we're going pretty far out into the country."
"Just wait. I think the next turn will be onto a one-lane road, if this map is any indication."
As they turned onto the left fork of the road, the rain, which had been slackening, began coming down harder as if making up for lost time. Joe slowed again and increased the speed of the wipers, to little effect. "Are you going to be able to see where we need to turn?"
"I think it's right up here a little ways. See that stop sign by the tree?"
Joe eased onto the narrow road, his brows drawing together in concentration. "This is a dangerous street in this weather. No lines, no curbs, nothing."
Brent agreed. "They should develop out here. Get one of those rural improvement grants or something. It would improve their property values."
"Do we have to stay on this road for very long?"
Brent glanced at the map. "No, it looks like we'll be turning again soon."
"I wonder if Ursula keeps horses," Joe said, gesturing toward a stable set back from the road.
Brent shrugged. "She could do anything, for all we know."
"And we know nothing," Joe's voice took on an edge. "I hate feeling this way, like everything I thought I knew was wrong."
Suddenly Brent leaned forward, straining to see the road through the rain. "Oh, hell."
"Don't tell me we passed it."
"Yeah, I think we did."
"How can you tell?"
"Didn't we just pass a cross-street?"
"If you can call it that. It was just a little gravel path."
"Well, I think maybe we went too far. Turn around and go back. We haven't passed it by much."
"Turn around where?" Joe gestured at the road, empty of cross streets or driveways.
"Just turn around here in the road. There's no traffic."
Joe looked around doubtfully, then stopped the truck, threw it into reverse, cut the wheel and started to back up. "Reach back there and wipe off the rear window. I'm not getting a clear picture of where I'm going."
Brent twisted around in his seat. "It's okay. You're miles away from the ditch."
Joe released the brake and began inching backward, casting occasional glances behind him, but trusting Brent's reassuring words to "keep going, keep going," until suddenly the left rear wheel hit slippery gravel, and the back end of the truck lurched to one side. Before he could get his foot on the brake, the right wheel slipped backward, too, and the truck slid neatly into the ditch, with only the right front tire remaining at road level.
Cursing, Joe turned on the four-wheel drive. He hit the gas and the tires spun, but nothing happened. The rear wheels embedded themselves in the mud, the left front wheel spinning on open air, clipping a few weeds, the right front tire unable to find a hold in the slippery gravel of the shoulder. After gunning the engine a few times, Joe stomped on the brake and put the truck into park. He turned around in his seat and fixed Brent with an icy glare. "Get out and find something to put under the wheels."
Brent sucked in his breath but didn't argue. He opened the door and jumped into ankle-deep mud. He winced at the cold rain beating on his face and dribbling down the back of his neck as he walked to the edge of the ditch. The wheels were buried almost to the axle. Since there was no point trying to help from that end, he went around to the front. The left front wheel had a few inches of space between it and the side of the ditch, and after assessing the situation, Brent looked around, finding a few small rocks and branches, but nothing substantial to fill the gap between tire and ground. After a few minutes, he returned to the truck and climbed in. "I couldn't find anything."
"You must not have looked hard enough. Look again."
"Man, I'm telling you, it's hopeless. Those rear wheels are in too deep. Even if I could find something big enough to put under the front one, I don't think it would give enough leverage to pull the back end out. We're going to need a tow truck."
"If you can't find something to put under the wheels, I suggest you get out and push, since you're the one that got us into this mess in the first place."
Brent shoved his dripping hair off his forehead. "Look, you don't have to tell me, okay? I feel like an idiot, and if I thought wading in mud up to my knees to push this truck would do any good, I'd be doing it. Go look for yourself if you don't believe me."
Joe gazed steadily at Brent long enough for the drumming of the rain on the roof to grow louder, the curtains of rain nearly opaque, until it seemed the entire gray, deafening world had closed in around them and they were in the last dry place on earth. Brent picked at his soaking pants and examined the toes of his muddy shoes, then he raised his head and met Joe's eyes.
"Move over and let me out," Joe said.
Brent moved as far back in the seat as he could so Joe could climb over him and get out on the passenger side, since getting out on the driver's side was out of the question. Joe jumped down and slammed the door behind him, leaving Brent alone, dripping and shivering.
After a few minutes, Joe climbed back in, soaked to the skin. He crawled over to the driver's seat, started the engine and turned on the heater. He stretched his hands toward an air vent, flexing his fingers in the warm air. Brent leaned forward and did the same. "What do you think?" Brent finally asked.
"I think we're screwed."
Chapter Forty
Joe slumped against the elevator wall. "That was a waste of time."
"Not really," Brent said. "At least we know where Ursula Docet isn't."
"That doesn't tell us where she is, though."
"Maybe I can find her on the internet."
"She's retired. Why do you think she'd be easy to find on the web? Sylvia Lobo is young and actively engaged in...business, and she wasn't online."
"Well, if we can't find her on an internet search, we can still find out if Elise is leaving the country. I still have a lead with Selene, you know."
"How long do you think it will take her to find something?"
"Who knows?" The elevator had reached their floor and they stepped off. "She has connections, but they're pretty high up. It'll take her at least the better part of today to work her way down to the flunkies who actually access the data, and that's if she puts her mind to this and doesn't waffle or get bored and go out drinking."
Joe glanced at his watch. "Well, it's late afternoon now."
"As soon as we get out of this garage and have a good signal, I'll give her a call."
They climbed into the truck and Joe started backing out of the parking space. "Where to, now?"
"A library, I guess, or any place with public computers or a good wi-fi signal so I can do a search on Ursula."
* * *
Joe drove to the nearest library he knew, which also happened to be in his old neighborhood in the shadow of the cathedral. The library was a Greek Revival affair of gray stone and imposing columns. It had once served a middle-class community but over the years had become a haven for immigrants eager to improve their uncertain English. "Why are we coming to this dismal place?" Brent said. "A library in a poor neighborhood won't do us any good."
"Hey, the neighborhood may be poor, but that doesn't mean the libraries are," Joe said. "I keep up with what's going on in the old 'hood. They got one of those government grants."
Brent followed Joe inside skeptically and was reassured when he spotted several computers for public use. "Not bad," he admitted, opening a browser. "A shame they had to put security bars on the window to keep people from stealing them, though."
"You always have to diss something, don't you?"
"You diss the rich, I diss the poor. What's the problem?"
"Nothing, except the rich guys get that way by taking advantage of us poor people, not the other way around." Joe shoved his hands in his pockets. "How long will this take?"
"Hard telling. Luckily we're not looking for a real common name."
"I'm going to look around a bit, then."
"Suit yourself." Brent leaned over the screen, scanning the results of his first search. Impatiently, he went from site to site, finding a name on a class reunion roster, a couple mentions on a message board, and a review of a show featuring one of Ursula's protégés. Everything seemed to point toward a dead end. Finally, though, he clicked on a link that took him to a website that made him smile. He found a stack of note paper and some yellow pencil stubs and scribbled an address. Then he opened a second browser window and did a map search.
Satisfied, he went in search of Joe, who he found in the art section, poring over a book of glossy photos. Joe looked up at his approach. "Anything?"
Brent showed him the map printout. "Unless she's moved in the last couple of years, this should be it."
"No way." Joe took the map and examined it. "Man, that's clear outside of town, almost to the county line."
"It shouldn't be too hard to find, though, should it?"
"Well, those farm roads can be tricky with lots of little dirt roads connecting into them that don't show up on maps. Signage is usually bad. And then there's driveways that look like roads until you've actually gone about a quarter of a mile, and then you realize you're pulling up in front of someone's house… but that doesn't really matter. As long as we have a general idea where to look, we'll find her."
"Good."
"How'd you find this, by the way?"
Brent grinned. "A roster, of all things. Ursula Docet is still on a few consulting committees for the ballet and some of its associated charities. She's secretary of one of them, and her address showed up on the roster's mailing list. A really stupid thing for them to post online, but lucky for us."
"I'll say."
The book Joe had left open on the table caught Brent's eye. "Hey, I didn't know you were featured in a book."
"'Modern American Woodcarving.' Kind of cool, isn't it?"
"I'll say." He examined the picture Joe had been looking at. "She's been your muse, hasn't she?"
Joe gazed at the wooden angel with Elise's luscious, doe-like eyes and pouting lips. "I guess you could say that."
"You think she ever minded?"
"Why would she?"
Brent shrugged. "I would think it would get old, always being a goddess and never being a real person."
Joe closed the book and put it back on the shelf. "Don't be stupid. What woman doesn't want to be a goddess?"
"Maybe someone like Elise?"
Joe glared at him silently, then reached in his pocket for his keys. "We've got a long drive, and I don't want to be trying to find this place in the dark. Plus, I need to make a quick stop along the way."
* * *
The quick stop turned out to be at the cathedral. "What are we doing here?" Brent said. "There's no one here who can help us."
"Maybe, maybe not." Joe killed the engine and put a hand on the door handle. "You coming?"
"No, I'll wait out here and try to call Selene."
"Good idea. I won't be long."
The church was empty and nearly dark except for a few dim lights and votives. Joe dipped his fingers in the holy water, crossed himself and stepped into the Virgin's chapel. He fumbled for an unused votive, lit it and placed it with the others. Then he knelt in silence for several minutes. Finally, after a quick look around to make sure he was unwatched, he slipped off his gold wedding band and pinned it to a fold of the Virgin's skirt. When he stood to leave he noticed Brent framed in chapel doorway.
"Couldn't wait outside, could you?" he muttered, brushing past him into the vestibule.
"I just wondered what was taking so long."
"You should learn to mind your own business once in awhile."
Brent followed him to the heavy double doors in silence. Once they were in the truck, though, he said, "I really didn't mean to pry."
Joe shrugged and started the engine.
"We've been to a lot dumber places for help," Brent went on. "Anything's worth a try at this point."
"That's what I figured."
"If it works, maybe I'll convert."
"She doesn't need you to be a Catholic," Joe said. "She just needs you to believe."
Brent considered. "I guess you could say a lot of women are like that."
"Maybe so."
"Not really," Brent said. "At least we know where Ursula Docet isn't."
"That doesn't tell us where she is, though."
"Maybe I can find her on the internet."
"She's retired. Why do you think she'd be easy to find on the web? Sylvia Lobo is young and actively engaged in...business, and she wasn't online."
"Well, if we can't find her on an internet search, we can still find out if Elise is leaving the country. I still have a lead with Selene, you know."
"How long do you think it will take her to find something?"
"Who knows?" The elevator had reached their floor and they stepped off. "She has connections, but they're pretty high up. It'll take her at least the better part of today to work her way down to the flunkies who actually access the data, and that's if she puts her mind to this and doesn't waffle or get bored and go out drinking."
Joe glanced at his watch. "Well, it's late afternoon now."
"As soon as we get out of this garage and have a good signal, I'll give her a call."
They climbed into the truck and Joe started backing out of the parking space. "Where to, now?"
"A library, I guess, or any place with public computers or a good wi-fi signal so I can do a search on Ursula."
* * *
Joe drove to the nearest library he knew, which also happened to be in his old neighborhood in the shadow of the cathedral. The library was a Greek Revival affair of gray stone and imposing columns. It had once served a middle-class community but over the years had become a haven for immigrants eager to improve their uncertain English. "Why are we coming to this dismal place?" Brent said. "A library in a poor neighborhood won't do us any good."
"Hey, the neighborhood may be poor, but that doesn't mean the libraries are," Joe said. "I keep up with what's going on in the old 'hood. They got one of those government grants."
Brent followed Joe inside skeptically and was reassured when he spotted several computers for public use. "Not bad," he admitted, opening a browser. "A shame they had to put security bars on the window to keep people from stealing them, though."
"You always have to diss something, don't you?"
"You diss the rich, I diss the poor. What's the problem?"
"Nothing, except the rich guys get that way by taking advantage of us poor people, not the other way around." Joe shoved his hands in his pockets. "How long will this take?"
"Hard telling. Luckily we're not looking for a real common name."
"I'm going to look around a bit, then."
"Suit yourself." Brent leaned over the screen, scanning the results of his first search. Impatiently, he went from site to site, finding a name on a class reunion roster, a couple mentions on a message board, and a review of a show featuring one of Ursula's protégés. Everything seemed to point toward a dead end. Finally, though, he clicked on a link that took him to a website that made him smile. He found a stack of note paper and some yellow pencil stubs and scribbled an address. Then he opened a second browser window and did a map search.
Satisfied, he went in search of Joe, who he found in the art section, poring over a book of glossy photos. Joe looked up at his approach. "Anything?"
Brent showed him the map printout. "Unless she's moved in the last couple of years, this should be it."
"No way." Joe took the map and examined it. "Man, that's clear outside of town, almost to the county line."
"It shouldn't be too hard to find, though, should it?"
"Well, those farm roads can be tricky with lots of little dirt roads connecting into them that don't show up on maps. Signage is usually bad. And then there's driveways that look like roads until you've actually gone about a quarter of a mile, and then you realize you're pulling up in front of someone's house… but that doesn't really matter. As long as we have a general idea where to look, we'll find her."
"Good."
"How'd you find this, by the way?"
Brent grinned. "A roster, of all things. Ursula Docet is still on a few consulting committees for the ballet and some of its associated charities. She's secretary of one of them, and her address showed up on the roster's mailing list. A really stupid thing for them to post online, but lucky for us."
"I'll say."
The book Joe had left open on the table caught Brent's eye. "Hey, I didn't know you were featured in a book."
"'Modern American Woodcarving.' Kind of cool, isn't it?"
"I'll say." He examined the picture Joe had been looking at. "She's been your muse, hasn't she?"
Joe gazed at the wooden angel with Elise's luscious, doe-like eyes and pouting lips. "I guess you could say that."
"You think she ever minded?"
"Why would she?"
Brent shrugged. "I would think it would get old, always being a goddess and never being a real person."
Joe closed the book and put it back on the shelf. "Don't be stupid. What woman doesn't want to be a goddess?"
"Maybe someone like Elise?"
Joe glared at him silently, then reached in his pocket for his keys. "We've got a long drive, and I don't want to be trying to find this place in the dark. Plus, I need to make a quick stop along the way."
* * *
The quick stop turned out to be at the cathedral. "What are we doing here?" Brent said. "There's no one here who can help us."
"Maybe, maybe not." Joe killed the engine and put a hand on the door handle. "You coming?"
"No, I'll wait out here and try to call Selene."
"Good idea. I won't be long."
The church was empty and nearly dark except for a few dim lights and votives. Joe dipped his fingers in the holy water, crossed himself and stepped into the Virgin's chapel. He fumbled for an unused votive, lit it and placed it with the others. Then he knelt in silence for several minutes. Finally, after a quick look around to make sure he was unwatched, he slipped off his gold wedding band and pinned it to a fold of the Virgin's skirt. When he stood to leave he noticed Brent framed in chapel doorway.
"Couldn't wait outside, could you?" he muttered, brushing past him into the vestibule.
"I just wondered what was taking so long."
"You should learn to mind your own business once in awhile."
Brent followed him to the heavy double doors in silence. Once they were in the truck, though, he said, "I really didn't mean to pry."
Joe shrugged and started the engine.
"We've been to a lot dumber places for help," Brent went on. "Anything's worth a try at this point."
"That's what I figured."
"If it works, maybe I'll convert."
"She doesn't need you to be a Catholic," Joe said. "She just needs you to believe."
Brent considered. "I guess you could say a lot of women are like that."
"Maybe so."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Joe paused under the canopy outside the club. "When did the weatherman say we were going to get rain? I thought it was supposed to stay clear."
Brent shoved his hands in his pockets. "It was on weather.com."
"Well that's really helpful to someone without a computer or a smart phone."
Brent shrugged. "Cece had computers and TVs, you know. Several, in fact."
Joe frowned at the rain. "I guess we're just going to get wet." He stepped from under the canopy and Brent followed, his coat pulled over his head.
Once they were inside the truck, Brent looked at his wet shoes in dismay. "I bet they're ruined now. They're Bruno Maglis, too."
"I'm glad to see nothing we've been through has changed your priorities," Joe said. "So how are we going to find this Docet woman?"
"Let's go to the ballet. While we're driving, I'll call information and see if Ursula is listed."
Joe pulled onto the feeder road. "I’m assuming you know how to get there," he said as he entered the freeway. "It's downtown, right?"
Brent nodded. "When we get closer, I'll give you directions."
They drove a long time in silence, once Brent gave up on his attempts to get a phone listing for Ursula Docet. Settling back in his seat, he gave in to the mesmerizing rhythm of the rain beating on the roof and the pumping of the windshield wipers.
Finally Joe muttered, "Damn dirty trick of that girl back there, putting Lamia's drinks on our tab."
"They all do that," Brent said. "It's assumed that if a dancer is at your table, you're buying her drinks."
"Well, I didn't appreciate it. And I wouldn't have had so many if she hadn't kept ordering them."
"Too late now." They were nearing downtown and Brent pointed to the exit up ahead. "Let's get off here. It's not as close, but it will keep us from getting stuck in that traffic up ahead."
Joe pulled off the freeway, turned onto a side street and following it toward the anonymous towers ahead. Under Brent's guidance, he navigated the broad one-way streets of the city's center, dodging office-workers and lumbering city buses that cut him off when they didn't stop directly in front of him to admit or disgorge passengers. "I knew there was a reason I hated driving downtown."
"Park in that garage up ahead," Brent said, ignoring Joe's complaints. "The one two blocks up, on the left.
"Now you tell me." Joe wove through the chaos to get from the far right to the far left lane, darting in front of a red Hyundai just in time to make the garage entrance. He found a vacant parking space then twisted around to look behind the seat. "Are we going to need an umbrella? I have one here somewhere, I think."
"No, if we take the elevator to the basement level, there's a tunnel that we can use to get over to the ballet building. This is all part of the fine arts center." He stepped out of the truck and did a quick assessment of his clothes. Then he examined Joe with the same critical eye. "We're going to have to get into some drier things. We need to look nice."
"What for?"
"Trust me." Brent reached behind his seat for his overnight bag and took out a few things. "See anyone who'll notice if I change my pants?"
"Are you insane? This isn't your bedroom."
"You're right. I'll go in the stairwell." He slung a pair of slacks and fresh sweater over his arm and headed toward the steel exit door. With a glance over his shoulder at Joe, he called, "Pick something dry for yourself. Something that looks professional."
Grumbling, Joe dug in his bag, but the best he could come up with was a pair of dry jeans and a sweater. He followed Brent to the stairwell, meeting him as he was coming out. "Is that the best you've got?" Brent asked.
"Yes, it is," Joe said irritably. "Unlike you, I didn't take any of that stuff from Cece's."
Brent frowned. "Well, I guess it will have to do."
"Have to do for what?"
"Just get dressed. I'll tell you the plan in the elevator."
A few minutes later they were riding the elevator into the depths of the building. Joe fidgeted in one of Brent's cashmere sweaters and asked, "So what's all this about?"
Brent was focused on something in his wallet and didn't look up.
"What are you doing?"
"Putting a few business cards on top so I can get to them quickly. When we get there, let me do the talking. I'm going to make like I'm doing a little cold-calling, seeing if they'd like me to handle their advertising."
"Aren't you a little high up the food chain to be doing your own cold-calling?"
Brent smiled. "I'll wing it. I can be very convincing."
"No argument there." Joe examined the cuffs of his sweater. "So who am I?"
Brent considered. "I think you'll be my photographer. You know enough about art and lighting to be believable."
"Just so long as I don't have to take any actual pictures."
The elevator doors slid open on a dim winding tunnel that meandered into the murky distance under the dim blue lighting. They followed its twists and turns for several minutes, the bare concrete walls occasionally relieved by framed ballet and theater posters whose bright colors nevertheless managed to look sad and drained of energy in the claustrophobic tunnel.
"How far is it?" Joe finally asked. "I'm starting to feel a little hemmed in, here."
"We're almost there. These tunnels go on for miles, though. You can get lost if you don't know what you're doing." A few moments later, they found themselves at a glass double door with the words "St. Argent Ballet" neatly calligraphed on the glass. "Just remember to keep quiet. And try to look artistic." Brent opened the door and they went inside.
They found themselves in a small lobby decorated in soothing tones of gray and blue. No one was immediately in sight, and Brent took the opportunity to pick up a schedule of performances lying on a small table. He scanned it briefly, taking note of the dates. Finding a few programs on the table as well, he flipped through one, memorizing the names of a few directors and principals. Suddenly a woman burst into the room, brisk and athletic in leotard, baggy pants and a windbreaker. Brent ran after her. "Excuse me, ma'am, could you direct me to the business office?"
"Down the hall, third door on the left," she said as she brushed past him and hurried out the door.
"Nice lady," Joe remarked.
Brent was unconcerned and headed down the hall, Joe following close behind. When he got to the office he was looking for, he paused to compose himself then pulled out a business card and strode confidently up to the reception desk. "Good afternoon." He handed his card to the young woman at the desk. "My name's Brent Conner, and this is one of my associates, Joe Gonzales."
Joe offered a polite nod of agreement.
"I was wondering if I could see Claire Fournier."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Uh, no. I saw the performance of Giselle last night and was very impressed. As you see from my card, I'm in marketing, and I think I can help get the word out about what a great collection of talent you have." He leaned forward. "I have a client with a small area magazine he's putting together, and maybe we could collaborate with him-- get him to run a story about the work you're doing here." He pulled out another business card from his wallet. "So is Ms. Fournier available this afternoon? I don't need much of her time. I just want to introduce myself and see if she'd interested in setting up a formal appointment for a later date."
The receptionist reached for the phone. "I'll see if she's available," she said. "Have a seat while I page her office."
Brent shoved his hands in his pockets. "It was on weather.com."
"Well that's really helpful to someone without a computer or a smart phone."
Brent shrugged. "Cece had computers and TVs, you know. Several, in fact."
Joe frowned at the rain. "I guess we're just going to get wet." He stepped from under the canopy and Brent followed, his coat pulled over his head.
Once they were inside the truck, Brent looked at his wet shoes in dismay. "I bet they're ruined now. They're Bruno Maglis, too."
"I'm glad to see nothing we've been through has changed your priorities," Joe said. "So how are we going to find this Docet woman?"
"Let's go to the ballet. While we're driving, I'll call information and see if Ursula is listed."
Joe pulled onto the feeder road. "I’m assuming you know how to get there," he said as he entered the freeway. "It's downtown, right?"
Brent nodded. "When we get closer, I'll give you directions."
They drove a long time in silence, once Brent gave up on his attempts to get a phone listing for Ursula Docet. Settling back in his seat, he gave in to the mesmerizing rhythm of the rain beating on the roof and the pumping of the windshield wipers.
Finally Joe muttered, "Damn dirty trick of that girl back there, putting Lamia's drinks on our tab."
"They all do that," Brent said. "It's assumed that if a dancer is at your table, you're buying her drinks."
"Well, I didn't appreciate it. And I wouldn't have had so many if she hadn't kept ordering them."
"Too late now." They were nearing downtown and Brent pointed to the exit up ahead. "Let's get off here. It's not as close, but it will keep us from getting stuck in that traffic up ahead."
Joe pulled off the freeway, turned onto a side street and following it toward the anonymous towers ahead. Under Brent's guidance, he navigated the broad one-way streets of the city's center, dodging office-workers and lumbering city buses that cut him off when they didn't stop directly in front of him to admit or disgorge passengers. "I knew there was a reason I hated driving downtown."
"Park in that garage up ahead," Brent said, ignoring Joe's complaints. "The one two blocks up, on the left.
"Now you tell me." Joe wove through the chaos to get from the far right to the far left lane, darting in front of a red Hyundai just in time to make the garage entrance. He found a vacant parking space then twisted around to look behind the seat. "Are we going to need an umbrella? I have one here somewhere, I think."
"No, if we take the elevator to the basement level, there's a tunnel that we can use to get over to the ballet building. This is all part of the fine arts center." He stepped out of the truck and did a quick assessment of his clothes. Then he examined Joe with the same critical eye. "We're going to have to get into some drier things. We need to look nice."
"What for?"
"Trust me." Brent reached behind his seat for his overnight bag and took out a few things. "See anyone who'll notice if I change my pants?"
"Are you insane? This isn't your bedroom."
"You're right. I'll go in the stairwell." He slung a pair of slacks and fresh sweater over his arm and headed toward the steel exit door. With a glance over his shoulder at Joe, he called, "Pick something dry for yourself. Something that looks professional."
Grumbling, Joe dug in his bag, but the best he could come up with was a pair of dry jeans and a sweater. He followed Brent to the stairwell, meeting him as he was coming out. "Is that the best you've got?" Brent asked.
"Yes, it is," Joe said irritably. "Unlike you, I didn't take any of that stuff from Cece's."
Brent frowned. "Well, I guess it will have to do."
"Have to do for what?"
"Just get dressed. I'll tell you the plan in the elevator."
A few minutes later they were riding the elevator into the depths of the building. Joe fidgeted in one of Brent's cashmere sweaters and asked, "So what's all this about?"
Brent was focused on something in his wallet and didn't look up.
"What are you doing?"
"Putting a few business cards on top so I can get to them quickly. When we get there, let me do the talking. I'm going to make like I'm doing a little cold-calling, seeing if they'd like me to handle their advertising."
"Aren't you a little high up the food chain to be doing your own cold-calling?"
Brent smiled. "I'll wing it. I can be very convincing."
"No argument there." Joe examined the cuffs of his sweater. "So who am I?"
Brent considered. "I think you'll be my photographer. You know enough about art and lighting to be believable."
"Just so long as I don't have to take any actual pictures."
The elevator doors slid open on a dim winding tunnel that meandered into the murky distance under the dim blue lighting. They followed its twists and turns for several minutes, the bare concrete walls occasionally relieved by framed ballet and theater posters whose bright colors nevertheless managed to look sad and drained of energy in the claustrophobic tunnel.
"How far is it?" Joe finally asked. "I'm starting to feel a little hemmed in, here."
"We're almost there. These tunnels go on for miles, though. You can get lost if you don't know what you're doing." A few moments later, they found themselves at a glass double door with the words "St. Argent Ballet" neatly calligraphed on the glass. "Just remember to keep quiet. And try to look artistic." Brent opened the door and they went inside.
They found themselves in a small lobby decorated in soothing tones of gray and blue. No one was immediately in sight, and Brent took the opportunity to pick up a schedule of performances lying on a small table. He scanned it briefly, taking note of the dates. Finding a few programs on the table as well, he flipped through one, memorizing the names of a few directors and principals. Suddenly a woman burst into the room, brisk and athletic in leotard, baggy pants and a windbreaker. Brent ran after her. "Excuse me, ma'am, could you direct me to the business office?"
"Down the hall, third door on the left," she said as she brushed past him and hurried out the door.
"Nice lady," Joe remarked.
Brent was unconcerned and headed down the hall, Joe following close behind. When he got to the office he was looking for, he paused to compose himself then pulled out a business card and strode confidently up to the reception desk. "Good afternoon." He handed his card to the young woman at the desk. "My name's Brent Conner, and this is one of my associates, Joe Gonzales."
Joe offered a polite nod of agreement.
"I was wondering if I could see Claire Fournier."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Uh, no. I saw the performance of Giselle last night and was very impressed. As you see from my card, I'm in marketing, and I think I can help get the word out about what a great collection of talent you have." He leaned forward. "I have a client with a small area magazine he's putting together, and maybe we could collaborate with him-- get him to run a story about the work you're doing here." He pulled out another business card from his wallet. "So is Ms. Fournier available this afternoon? I don't need much of her time. I just want to introduce myself and see if she'd interested in setting up a formal appointment for a later date."
The receptionist reached for the phone. "I'll see if she's available," she said. "Have a seat while I page her office."
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Joe stretched his feet out under the table and looked Veronica steadily in the eye. “Okay, so you think we’re fools. That’s fine. Just tell us where Elise went and we’ll leave you alone.”
“I told you I have pretty strong feelings about that. She doesn’t want you, she doesn’t need you...if I knew anything, why would I betray her confidence?”
“The fact that we love her makes no difference to you?” Brent demanded, leaning forward so suddenly he startled her. “Don’t tell me you’ve worked in places like this so long you don’t have any faith in love.”
Veronica leaned forward too, displaying a mound of surgically enhanced cleavage. “What makes you think I don’t love Elise myself?”
Brent’s mouth fell open as if this was a possibility he had never considered.
Joe recovered more quickly. “She obviously doesn't love you, or she'd still be at your place. If she doesn’t want you any more than she wants us, why not tell us where she went? We’ll let you go back to whatever you were doing, and that will be the end of it.”
Veronica idly twirled a lock of hair while pretending to consider this. “I thought there was something you were going to give me if I talked. You don’t think I’d betray a friend for nothing, do you?”
“I can pay you the same way I paid to get you to this table.”
“How much?”
“I’ve got two more.”
Veronica frowned into her drink. “The last thing I want is for Elise to hate me. I lost track of her for years. We used to be roommates, danced together, hung out together. We dated some of the same guys back when I still dated guys. And even though she stayed straight and I didn't, I kept hoping one of those jerks would be the last and she'd see who her real friends were. When she started acting like she wanted to settle down, I thought I didn’t stand a chance. Then all of a sudden she looks me up and needs a favor—a place to stay and for me to keep my mouth shut. Two simple things. It just doesn’t seem right to tattle over a little blow.”
“What else do you want?” Brent asked.
“What makes you so sure my information has a price?”
“All information has a price.”
“Not necessarily,” Veronica said, finishing her drink and indicating to the waitress that they wanted another round. “Just because I work in a place like this doesn’t mean I don’t have standards.”
“No one said you didn’t,” Joe told her. “But you’re not ratting on Elise. She’s scared and needs our help.”
Veronica shook her head. “She may be scared, but if you think she needs help from you, you don’t know her very well. Besides, you can't keep pace with her. She’s probably not even in the country any more. You guys are wasting your time.”
Joe pushed his empty beer bottle aside. “Where is she going?”
“She told me she didn’t feel safe here. She was worried you’d find her, even after she changed her name and bleached her hair.”
“She colored her hair, too?” Brent asked.
“You didn’t know? She makes a delicious blonde.”
“Fine, whatever,” Joe said. “So where was she talking about going? Did she already have her plane tickets? What about a visa?”
"I don't know. She got a passport from that guy she bought her new name from, but I got the feeling that it made her a little nervous. I think if she goes through with her plan to leave the country, she may do it under her own name."
"Where was she thinking about going? And how was she going to get there?"
"I really don't know," Veronica admitted. "She said something about wanting to catch a flight to the Virgin Islands or someplace like that, and then go from there to some larger country where it's not too hard to get a work permit. I told her that was stupid and she should catch one of those Mexican express buses to Veracruz and relocate from there under her phony name. There's lots of shady characters in Mexico who could help her out, and their prices are cheaper than dirt."
"So what did she decide?"
"I said I don't know." Veronica looked around for the waitress. "Where's that other round I ordered?"
"You sure you should be drinking so much?" Brent asked, toying with a napkin from under his empty martini glass.
"Who are you, my mother? At least I'm not driving."
Brent opened his mouth to say something, but Joe flashed him a silencing look, and at that moment the waitress arrived with a tray full of drinks. "It's about time," Veronica told her. "What took you so long?"
The waitress ignored Veronica's nagging and began setting drinks in front of them. "Some of your other customers are wondering when you're going to go see them."
Veronica craned her neck and a group of men in electrician's uniforms waved at her. She turned back to Joe. "If we're going to do business, we need to cut the bullshit and get down to it. I've got some regulars waiting to see me, and they're my bread and butter."
Joe reached for his fresh beer. "I'm just waiting on you. I made you an offer: two more of what I gave you earlier if you tell me who Elise was going to see after she left you."
"Is that the best you can do?"
"It's a pretty good offer, I think," Joe said. "What else do you want?"
Veronica considered. "How about the phone number of the person you got this stuff from? That's better shit than what my contact I have now is getting me."
"We got it from Sylvia Lobo," Brent said. "You remember her."
Veronica smiled. "I sure as hell remember Sylvia. Man, I haven't talked to her in forever. I had no idea she was still in the business." She drained half her Jack and coke, then darted a look at her table of electricians and indicated she would only be a minute more. "How can I get in touch with her?"
Brent had pulled out his wallet by this point and was copying the phone number onto a cocktail napkin from the blue post-it they had found in Elise's office a few days before. "Don't mention us, okay?"
Veronica folded the napkin and slipped it into a pocket of her jacket. Then she turned to Joe. "Well?"
Joe searched his jacket pockets, removed a few pieces of paper, then took the jacket off and slipped it around her shoulders. "Left inside pocket."
Veronica fumbled a bit, then shrugged off Joe's jacket and handed it back. "Ursula Docet."
"What?"
"Ursula Docet. That's who Elise went to stay with. She's one of the women from the ballet. We did a lot of our training with her."
"Do you have a phone number or an address for her?" Joe asked.
"Sorry."
"Is she still with the ballet?"
"I have no idea."
"That's okay," Brent said. "If she's not at the ballet, there will be some kind of record at the academy or on the internet. Ballet is pretty incestuous. We ought to be able to track her down."
"Well that's good," Joe said. "Otherwise that would've been a pretty high price just for a name."
Veronica drained the last of her drink and got to her feet, "That's all you asked for, remember?" She tossed her heavy hair over her shoulder and straightened her jacket. "Just remember, if you find her, you didn't get anything out of me."
"Of course not."
"You won't find her, though."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
“I told you I have pretty strong feelings about that. She doesn’t want you, she doesn’t need you...if I knew anything, why would I betray her confidence?”
“The fact that we love her makes no difference to you?” Brent demanded, leaning forward so suddenly he startled her. “Don’t tell me you’ve worked in places like this so long you don’t have any faith in love.”
Veronica leaned forward too, displaying a mound of surgically enhanced cleavage. “What makes you think I don’t love Elise myself?”
Brent’s mouth fell open as if this was a possibility he had never considered.
Joe recovered more quickly. “She obviously doesn't love you, or she'd still be at your place. If she doesn’t want you any more than she wants us, why not tell us where she went? We’ll let you go back to whatever you were doing, and that will be the end of it.”
Veronica idly twirled a lock of hair while pretending to consider this. “I thought there was something you were going to give me if I talked. You don’t think I’d betray a friend for nothing, do you?”
“I can pay you the same way I paid to get you to this table.”
“How much?”
“I’ve got two more.”
Veronica frowned into her drink. “The last thing I want is for Elise to hate me. I lost track of her for years. We used to be roommates, danced together, hung out together. We dated some of the same guys back when I still dated guys. And even though she stayed straight and I didn't, I kept hoping one of those jerks would be the last and she'd see who her real friends were. When she started acting like she wanted to settle down, I thought I didn’t stand a chance. Then all of a sudden she looks me up and needs a favor—a place to stay and for me to keep my mouth shut. Two simple things. It just doesn’t seem right to tattle over a little blow.”
“What else do you want?” Brent asked.
“What makes you so sure my information has a price?”
“All information has a price.”
“Not necessarily,” Veronica said, finishing her drink and indicating to the waitress that they wanted another round. “Just because I work in a place like this doesn’t mean I don’t have standards.”
“No one said you didn’t,” Joe told her. “But you’re not ratting on Elise. She’s scared and needs our help.”
Veronica shook her head. “She may be scared, but if you think she needs help from you, you don’t know her very well. Besides, you can't keep pace with her. She’s probably not even in the country any more. You guys are wasting your time.”
Joe pushed his empty beer bottle aside. “Where is she going?”
“She told me she didn’t feel safe here. She was worried you’d find her, even after she changed her name and bleached her hair.”
“She colored her hair, too?” Brent asked.
“You didn’t know? She makes a delicious blonde.”
“Fine, whatever,” Joe said. “So where was she talking about going? Did she already have her plane tickets? What about a visa?”
"I don't know. She got a passport from that guy she bought her new name from, but I got the feeling that it made her a little nervous. I think if she goes through with her plan to leave the country, she may do it under her own name."
"Where was she thinking about going? And how was she going to get there?"
"I really don't know," Veronica admitted. "She said something about wanting to catch a flight to the Virgin Islands or someplace like that, and then go from there to some larger country where it's not too hard to get a work permit. I told her that was stupid and she should catch one of those Mexican express buses to Veracruz and relocate from there under her phony name. There's lots of shady characters in Mexico who could help her out, and their prices are cheaper than dirt."
"So what did she decide?"
"I said I don't know." Veronica looked around for the waitress. "Where's that other round I ordered?"
"You sure you should be drinking so much?" Brent asked, toying with a napkin from under his empty martini glass.
"Who are you, my mother? At least I'm not driving."
Brent opened his mouth to say something, but Joe flashed him a silencing look, and at that moment the waitress arrived with a tray full of drinks. "It's about time," Veronica told her. "What took you so long?"
The waitress ignored Veronica's nagging and began setting drinks in front of them. "Some of your other customers are wondering when you're going to go see them."
Veronica craned her neck and a group of men in electrician's uniforms waved at her. She turned back to Joe. "If we're going to do business, we need to cut the bullshit and get down to it. I've got some regulars waiting to see me, and they're my bread and butter."
Joe reached for his fresh beer. "I'm just waiting on you. I made you an offer: two more of what I gave you earlier if you tell me who Elise was going to see after she left you."
"Is that the best you can do?"
"It's a pretty good offer, I think," Joe said. "What else do you want?"
Veronica considered. "How about the phone number of the person you got this stuff from? That's better shit than what my contact I have now is getting me."
"We got it from Sylvia Lobo," Brent said. "You remember her."
Veronica smiled. "I sure as hell remember Sylvia. Man, I haven't talked to her in forever. I had no idea she was still in the business." She drained half her Jack and coke, then darted a look at her table of electricians and indicated she would only be a minute more. "How can I get in touch with her?"
Brent had pulled out his wallet by this point and was copying the phone number onto a cocktail napkin from the blue post-it they had found in Elise's office a few days before. "Don't mention us, okay?"
Veronica folded the napkin and slipped it into a pocket of her jacket. Then she turned to Joe. "Well?"
Joe searched his jacket pockets, removed a few pieces of paper, then took the jacket off and slipped it around her shoulders. "Left inside pocket."
Veronica fumbled a bit, then shrugged off Joe's jacket and handed it back. "Ursula Docet."
"What?"
"Ursula Docet. That's who Elise went to stay with. She's one of the women from the ballet. We did a lot of our training with her."
"Do you have a phone number or an address for her?" Joe asked.
"Sorry."
"Is she still with the ballet?"
"I have no idea."
"That's okay," Brent said. "If she's not at the ballet, there will be some kind of record at the academy or on the internet. Ballet is pretty incestuous. We ought to be able to track her down."
"Well that's good," Joe said. "Otherwise that would've been a pretty high price just for a name."
Veronica drained the last of her drink and got to her feet, "That's all you asked for, remember?" She tossed her heavy hair over her shoulder and straightened her jacket. "Just remember, if you find her, you didn't get anything out of me."
"Of course not."
"You won't find her, though."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
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