The Perfect Fake Page 17

  As they curved around Oxford Circus toward the underground station, Tom noticed the reflection of a man in the glass front of a shoe store. He wouldn’t have paid attention, but he’d seen the same guy outside the camera shop. Black overcoat and dark hair. Looked Italian or even Middle Eastern. Tom turned around and scanned the faces on the crowded sidewalk. The man wasn’t there.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m hallucinating.”

  Tom followed Jenny to the platform for the Victoria Line. He wanted to lean his head back and close his eyes as the car swayed around curves, but he kept his arms crossed over his messenger bag. When the doors opened at the Brixton station, they had to trudge up a broken escalator, finally coming out to the street under a modern glass wall with an immense red-and-blue Underground sign. The street itself quickly deteriorated to redbrick buildings, small shops with steel security screens, and graffiti on the walls. They walked south through the major intersection at Coldharbour Lane. A block on, Jenny stopped at an Indian take-away.

  Night had fallen in Brixton. They walked to Abingdon Road, a narrow street of attached, two-story houses with meager gardens in front and small cars at the curb, all of them pointed in the wrong direction, Tom noticed. As they reached Jenny’s house, the front door opened, and a stout, middle-aged blond woman in a brown coat came down the steps. Her expression turned as chilly as the weather.

  “Hello, Mum. This is Tom. He’s a friend of mine visiting from Miami.”

  Without a word Jenny’s mother continued toward the street. Jenny unlocked the door. “The old cow. She hates me. I gave her some money, so she can’t say anything, can she? God, I will be so happy when I can afford my own flat.”

  It was a dark little house, done in a color scheme ranging from brown to gray. Jenny told Tom to take his things upstairs to the back bedroom while she put dinner on the table. Her room was hardly bigger than a closet and littered with her clothing and shoes. Tom groaned when he saw only one single-sized bed. He set the backpack out of the way, put the messenger bag and jacket on top of it, and went to find the bathroom. As he stood at the toilet, the mirror reflected ladies’ stockings and cotton panties, large size, on the shower rod. Washing up, he looked at his face, the puffy eyes and two-day beard. “Yeah, Tom, why are you here?”

  In a shop window on Regent Street his eyes had briefly met those of the man who’d been following him. Or maybe not following him. Tom didn’t know if he was jet-lagged or just paranoid.

  His unease had started before Larry’s friend Marek had thrown him to the deck of the boat, and even before Rhonda Barlowe offered him ten thousand dollars not to do the map. He’d started getting nervous the moment Stuart Barlowe said he would pay fifty thousand in cash for a fake Corelli. Supposedly Barlowe wanted it for himself, but Tom had never really believed that. Tom believed there were reasons that Barlowe hadn’t told him about. He believed that Barlowe would screw him over if he got the chance. Barlowe had cut pages from a rare atlas. He had cheated Rose out of seventy-two bucks in sales tax when he’d known that The Compass Rose was barely holding on. What would Barlowe do once he had his hands on the map? Would he pay what was owed? Or would he tell Tom to sue him for it? If the Weasel found out, Tom would be wearing a shirt with a number across the front.

  Tom needed some leverage. The map wasn’t enough.

  He came downstairs as Jenny was spooning curried chicken and lentils onto their plates. The kitchen was as cramped as the rest of the house, made even more so by the canned goods and boxes stacked on every available surface, as though somebody were expecting a food shortage. A framed linen tea towel, a 1998 calendar in memory of Princess Diana, hung over the gas range.

  There was a thump against the wall, then shouts in a language Tom didn’t recognize.

  Jenny said, “It’s just the Moroccans next door. They’re always fighting, those people.” She brought glasses of dark beer to the table. “One of them will wind up dead someday.”

  “Is this neighborhood safe? I don’t want my stuff ripped off.”

  “It’s fine—if you like common and boring. We don’t have a lot of burglaries.” She swung around to sit on Tom’s thigh. She kissed him full on the mouth and held his face in her hands. “It’s you! I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “I should’ve brought some sunshine.”

  “You should have! You’re in London for only three days? That’s not fair.”

  “I’ll have to get a hotel tomorrow,” he said.

  “Why? There’s room here.”

  “I need to get the computer running, check it out. You know.”

  “And then where will you go, after you leave London?”

  He saw no reason not to tell her. “Florence, Italy. I’m meeting a friend, a guy I used to know in Miami.”

  She looked at him sideways, bit her lip to hold back a smile, then said, “Have you been bad? Where did you get all that money for a fancy computer and the camera and all?”

  Jenny thought he’d stolen the money. It was not an unreasonable guess, Tom had to admit. “Somebody’s paying me to do a job for him.”

  “A job?” She draped her arms over his shoulders.

  “I can’t really talk about it,” Tom said.

  “I could help. I could go with you. You don’t know your way around Europe. I do. I speak a little Italian. I could be a big help.”

  Tom felt the pressure of her hip on his groin. His fatigue was giving way to something else. Even with the heat rising up his body he was able to see the benefits of taking Jenny with him that had nothing to do with sex. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Will you? Really?”

  “Yeah. I will.”

  “Super.”

  She kissed him again and started to get up. Tom held on to her. “Jenny, did you take some maps and jewelry out of Royce Herron’s house before you called the police?” She looked away, and he said, “I don’t care if you did, and I didn’t come to London to track them down. I’m trying to figure out a few things, that’s all.”

  Sweeping back her hair, she said, “Yes, I did. I’m not sorry, especially not sorry that some of them belonged to Stuart Barlowe. I pawned the jewelry in Miami. It wasn’t worth much. And when I got here, I took the maps to a dealer in Kensington. I got two thousand pounds for the lot. I know they were worth more, but I couldn’t guarantee the provenance, so I had to let them go. I gave my mother most of it. Spent some on a coat. It’s all gone now.”

  “Okay,” Tom said.

  She went to her chair. “Eat before your food gets cold.”

  “I do need your help, Jen. I need to ask you about Stuart Barlowe.”

  She made a face. “Can’t we just enjoy supper?”

  “A couple of questions,” Tom said. “I can’t explain why right now, but . . . did you ever meet Martha Framm? An older woman, one of Royce Herron’s friends.”

  Digging into her curry, Jenny said yes, she’d met her.

  “Mrs. Framm called Judge Herron the night he died. They talked about The Metropolis. She wanted him to go to a public rally against it. He wouldn’t do that, but he told her he had another way to put pressure on Stuart Barlowe. She asked what he meant, and he wouldn’t tell her. Do you know? Did he talk to you about it?”

  Ripping a piece of naan bread down the middle, Jenny said, “I’ve no idea.”

  “Maybe it was about you,” Tom said.

  “Me?”

  “You and Barlowe. Did Royce Herron know about that?”

  “Not really. We never talked about it, not like, oh, this is what I did with Stuart Barlowe, but he knew. Royce was a smart man, very smart. But. He would never have used me like that. He was a gentleman,” she said firmly.

  The neighbors were screaming at each other again. Jenny turned her head, listening. A few seconds later, a door slammed.

  “What was it, then?” Tom gazed across the room, toward the peeling wood cabinets over the sink. He drank more of his beer. “I think abou
t Barlowe’s connection to Larry Gerard, that whole crowd, and The Metropolis, and the way they finessed the zoning.”

  Jenny seemed to be deciding what to say, or whether to speak at all. “A few weeks ago, around the new year, I think, I overheard a conversation Royce had with Stuart. Royce was in his study, and the phone rang. He put it on mute and told me to go make him a drink and wait in the kitchen. He shut the door, but I was curious, so I stood there. I couldn’t hear very well, but Royce sounded angry. He wasn’t the kind of person who would normally raise his voice, so I stayed and listened some more to see what would happen. Stuart had just ended our relationship...well, I was afraid Royce would get on him for it, but they were talking about The Metropolis. Royce said it was too much, far too big, and Stuart had to do something about it or else. That’s what he said: ‘or else.’ And he said, ‘I know about you. I could make your life very unpleasant,’ or something like that. He said... oh, God, what did he say? ‘I know the truth, so don’t think you can get away with it any longer. I know who you are.’ I don’t remember the exact words, Tom. I ran to the kitchen to pick up the extension, but I was too afraid they’d hear me. I made Royce his drink and acted like I’d been there all along.”

  “And you didn’t ask him what he’d meant?”

  “God, no. He’d have known I was eavesdropping, wouldn’t he? Around that same time I was waiting for Stuart to send me some money like he’d promised, but it didn’t come, and it didn’t come, so I called him, and he said he wasn’t going to pay me a dime, and if I called again he would report me to immigration. So I wrote him a letter and sent it to his office marked ‘personal.’ ‘Dear Stuart, you lied, you broke your promise, and so on, but I know the truth about you. I know what you did. I want the money you promised, or I will reveal everything to the media.’ I wrote about twenty drafts of that letter.”

  Tom said, “He gave you the money.”

  “Five thousand dollars,” Jenny said.

  “But you never knew what the truth was?”

  “No! It was all air! I made it up. And then Royce Herron was killed, and... oh, my God. I thought it could’ve been because of this, and maybe I’d be next. I couldn’t get out of Miami fast enough.” Jenny laughed. “And I still don’t know what they were talking about! I should’ve asked for a lot more.”

  When she stopped laughing and reached for her beer, Tom said, “Does Stuart Barlowe know where you are?”

  “He knows my mum lives in Brixton, but I’m not worried. First of all, I’m so far away, and second, who would believe me?” She gestured with her fork. “You don’t like curry? You’re not eating.”

  “No, I do, I was just ...Jenny, if you took the maps... The police are saying map thieves killed Royce Herron. I thought so, too. Now I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t take all the maps,” she said. “If you’re asking my opinion, I’d look at Larry Gerard. Did you know, Tom, that he’s going to have this huge enormous restaurant at the top of The Metropolis? He wants to call it Chez Gerard. I mean, yuk. So if the building were like a normal size, only twenty stories, he’d be so disappointed.”

  “You think Larry killed Judge Herron?”

  “He could have! Larry is a shit of the first order. He’s more into The Metropolis than Stuart is. I mean, okay, it’s mostly Stuart’s money, but Larry’s the one everybody talks to. The investors, and the interior designers, and the salespeople...they all kiss his bum. He gets off on it.”

  Tom tried the curry, which was so hot it made his eyes water. He took a swallow of beer. “Got another question for you. Do you know of a friend, or acquaintance, of Larry’s named Oscar? I don’t have the last name.”

  “Yes. Why are you asking about him?”

  “I’m not sure yet. So who’s Oscar?”

  “Oscar Contreras. He’s from Peru. I think he’s in the drug business, and I don’t mean a pharmacy. You get a feeling for people like that. The way he dresses, the way he acts.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “He’s like an aide or PR person to some politician or somebody running for president in Peru. He was telling me about parties at the presidential palace, and how he’s going to be very important, blah blah blah. He was investing with Stuart, or with Stuart’s company. I don’t know how that works. I think Larry brought him into it.”

  “How did you meet Oscar?”

  She snorted. “Larry asked me to go out with him. We went to dinner with some people, then to Larry’s club on Brickell. Larry had a limo for Oscar with some champagne in a bucket, and we drank that and did some coke. Then we went to Oscar’s hotel, a bunch of us. He had this suite, and we partied till, like, four o’clock, and then Oscar’s friends left and...you fill in the blanks.”

  “You were his gift for investing in The Metropolis.”

  She made a wry smile. “I guess so. Look, Tom. I didn’t take money for it. It just happened.”

  “I know that. Where’s Oscar now? In Nassau? I heard he might be over in Nassau.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t care where Oscar is... but he told me he liked to go over to Paradise Island and gamble. He wanted me to go, too, but my visa had expired, and it would’ve been hard for me to get back to Miami.”

  “Did you ever meet a guy from Croatia named Marek?”

  “Oh, him. He’s scary. He was there at Oscar’s that night. Is he from Croatia? He offered to pay me five hundred dollars if I’d do him, but I said I was with Oscar, so bugger off. He didn’t like that, but Oscar came over and got him off me.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “I totally don’t remember.”

  “What kind of business is Marek in? I heard he sells truck parts in Dubrovnik.”

  She laughed. “What? Well, maybe, but I’m pretty sure he’s another of the investors. I heard him and Larry talking about The Metropolis, and buying the penthouse, so he probably has scads of money.”

  This didn’t fit, Tom thought. It didn’t fit with a former soldier in the Yugoslav army, a man with a missing thumbnail and wicked judo moves. And why had Marek wanted to know if Tom was going to see Oscar? As if Tom had been running a side game with Oscar Contreras on Paradise Island. The facts and suppositions and guesses were a pile of loose bricks in Tom’s head. He couldn’t lift them. He couldn’t think anymore. His eyes were burning; he wanted to sleep.

  “Carla was there that night, too,” Jenny said.

  Tom looked up. “Carla.”

  “I’ll tell you what a piece of shit he is. He paid her to go out with his customers. Paid her. He set her up with this guy in the city government who had something to do with The Metropolis. They took pictures. Then, what do you know? He votes for the project. That’s what Larry did.” Jenny stacked their plates. “I would have left Miami sooner or later.”

  Tom dug into his pocket and unfolded some crumpled bills. They added up to £230. When Jenny came back from the sink, he pressed the money into her hand, squeezing her fingers around it when she pulled away. “Take this. Seriously. I’ll be getting some more soon. It’s between friends, okay? I don’t expect you to do anything. If you get lucky someday, you can pay me back.”

  She kissed his forehead. “I’ll say it’s part of my salary, if I go with you to Italy.”

  He stood up and put his arms around her. “Jenny? I have to tell you something. It’s about Carla.”

  Tom could have slept on concrete, but he spooned next to Jenny on her narrow bed, and during the night he heard her crying. For her friend. For having to live in this house with a mother who didn’t want her there. For having been used.

  When Tom drifted back to sleep, he dreamed of a girl in a red beret.

  Chapter 17

  The overcast was giving way to patches of pale blue when room service arrived. A woman in a black skirt and tuxedo shirt wheeled the cart in

  and set it up by the window. She lifted the silver lid from the quiche and the tea cozy from the pot. Allison said, “I think it’s stopped raining.”
She signed the receipt.

  “Yes, Miss. It’s a fine day for a walk.”

  Still in her pajamas at half past eleven, Allison had been looking down at the bare branches and gray street four stories below, the people on the sidewalks, and the red double-decker buses that occasionally passed the hotel. She’d thought of leaving her notes for a while and finding a used bookshop. She wanted something smooth and warm that would fit in her pocket. A small book bound in green leather, with gilded pages. The Romantic poets, to put her in the mood for Italy. Byron. Keats? No, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...”

  During Allison’s college year in Rome, a tour had been organized to Florence. Allison had seen the house where Elizabeth Barrett Browning had lived with her husband Robert after they had eloped from England. She’d been an invalid spinster—

  Allison’s cell phone rang as she was biting into a croissant. She hurried to pick it up and saw her father’s mobile number on caller ID. “Hello, Dad.”

  “Am I catching you at the hotel? Or are you out?”

  “No, I’m here. I’m studying this morning. It’s all I do, study for the bar. Are you on your way to Hawaii?”

  “I’ve decided to let Rhonda go on her own. The idea of another cruise didn’t thrill me. Have you spoken again with Mr. Fairchild?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “You haven’t seen him? Hasn’t he called you?”

  “He will, I’m sure of it.”

  “Where is he staying?”

  “I don’t know. He said he would find a hotel and get back in touch.”

  “I see. You don’t know where he’s staying. What was the name of that girl he knows in London, the one who used to work for Larry...”

  “Jenny Gray.”

  “You said he would probably look her up?”

  “It’s just a guess.” Feeling unjustly put under interro- gation, Allison said, “I don’t know where she is either. He has her address, but he isn’t sharing it.”

  She heard Stuart let out a breath of exasperation. “What are we to do, then? I envision Tom Fairchild going on his merry way, doing as he pleases, where he pleases, on his own timetable. Do you completely appreciate the dire situation I’m facing?”