“Did you run the name?” Ryan asked.
Ollie palm-smacked his forehead. “Wish I’d thought of that.”
“You’re a real asshat.” Ryan’s words were ice.
That did it.
“We’re treading on the edge of my patience here.” I glared from Ollie to Ryan in the backseat. “I don’t know what the problem is, but you both need to dial down the attitude.”
Ollie mouthed the word “hormones.”
“Devereaux?” Resisting the urge to smack him.
“It’s a shiny new alias, one of several. The lady’s real name is Norma Devlin. She’s twenty-two, from Calgary, landed in Edmonton four months back. Calgary PD says her jacket’s pretty crowded, most of it juvie, so it’s unavailable without a warrant. Mostly petty shit, shoplifting, soliciting, disorderly. Lot of probation, no jail time.”
“Whatever Devereaux did to anger Forex, it wasn’t prostitution,” I said.
“Nope.” Ollie disengaged his seat belt. “Let’s do us some evicting.”
Forex answered the bell in seconds. She was dressed in jeans and an untucked blue cotton shirt. With her hair pulled back and sans makeup, she looked years older than she had in the Cowboy. And tired. She also looked like she’d just dropped her kid off for soccer.
“It took you long enough.” In a loud whisper.
“Good morning, Foxy. We’re good. And yourself?”
Forex’s eyes flicked past Ollie and did a quick scan of the street. Holding the door wide, she stepped back.
“You’re asking us in?” Ollie wanted an explicit invitation.
“Yes.” Hissed.
“All of us?”
“Yes.” She made a fast scooping gesture with one hand.
Ollie entered. Ryan. Yours truly. Forex quickly closed the door behind us.
I looked around. We were standing in an overfurnished parlor that L’ed into an overfurnished dining room. Dark, heavy carved stuff like my grandmother had. The carpet was moss, the sofa aqua and green stripes, the wing chairs a shade of turquoise that didn’t really blend.
A staircase rose on our left, two steps to a landing, then a right turn and up. The usual framed pictures of babies and graduates and brides angled up the wall above the banister.
Straight ahead was a kitchen. In an alcove I could see a Mac computer, its screen filled with a spreadsheet. Ledgers and printouts filled the countertop to either side. Black loose-leaf binders crammed a shelf above.
I noticed that Ollie was also eyeballing the workstation.
“Doing a little payroll?” he asked.
“I keep the books for a couple of businesses. It’s perfectly legal.”
“That what you tell the neighbors? You’re an accountant?”
“What I tell the neighbors is none of your business.”
“You’ve got skills. Why turn tricks?” Ollie sounded sincerely curious.
“Because I like it.” Defensive. “Now. Are you going to get that bitch out of my house?”
“Tell me why you want her gone.”
“Why? I’ll tell you why. I took her in, and she violated my trust.”
“Aurora Devereaux.”
“Yes. I opened my home. Charged her next to nothing.”
“She’s not paying the rent?”
“It’s not that. I made my rules clear. You live in my house, you’re frickin’ Doris Day. No men. No booze. No drugs.” Forex’s face was going deeper red with every word. “How does she thank me? She gets coked to the eyeballs night after night. Once maybe I can overlook. We all make mistakes. But this little miss is a hard-core junkie. Here, under my roof, she’s shooting up or snorting or tweaking or whatever the hell she does.”
Ollie tried to ask a question, but Forex was rolling.
“I get home from the Cowboy, you know what she’s doing? Sitting bare-ass naked in my backyard.” A palm smacked the blue cotton. “Singing! It’s goddamn two in the morning, and she’s doing strip karaoke outside my house!”
“Singing what?” Ollie asked.
“What?” Exhaustion and frustration were turning Forex’s voice shrill.
“Just wondering about her musical selection.”
Forex’s head thrust forward, causing the tendons in her neck to go taut. “What the flip does it matter?”
“I always do ‘Fat Bottom Girls.’”
Forex threw up both hands. “She fucking hates me!” Hitting hard on the verb and elongating the e.
Ollie didn’t get the reference. “You gotta grow thicker skin, Foxy.”
“Puddle of Mudd,” I said.
Three faces swiveled my way.
“They’re out of Kansas City. The song may actually be titled ‘She Hates Me.’ With the expletive implied.”
“Are you three for real?” Forex dropped her arms. “I’ve got a headcase doing blow au naturel on my lawn, and you morons are playing Name That Tune?”
I glanced at Ryan. Though he turned away, the ghost of a smile played on his lips.
“Did you ask Devereaux to leave?” Now Ollie was all business.
“Right after I ordered her to cover her puffy white ass. She cussed me out, slammed into her room, and locked the door. That’s why I called you.”
“Is she still in there?”
“The door’s still locked.”
“You don’t have a key?”
“I like my face arranged as it is.”
“OK. Here’s what’s going to happen. While we roust Devereaux, you’re going to disappear. No commentary. No interference. No input of any kind.”
“That ungrateful—”
“We’re outta here.” Ollie turned toward the door.
“OK. OK.” Forex snagged his arm. “Her room’s in back, above the garage.”
“Same crib Annaliese Ruben used?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Never a free lunch.” Forex removed a key from an end-table drawer and tossed it to Ollie. “No need to mess the place up. Anything Annaliese left is in a duffel in the closet.”
Forex led us to into the kitchen to a back door that opened onto a small patio overlooking a nicely kept lawn.
“Devereaux own a firearm?” These were the first words Ryan had spoken since entering the house.
“Not that I know of. It’s against my rules. But what the hell? Her Highness ignores them.”
As we filed out, Forex called to our backs, “Watch yourselves. Coming off the junk, she’ll be mean as a snake.”
Cars entered the garage from an alleyway in back, people from a door in the side facing the house. We followed a trail of concrete pavers to the latter.
The door was unlocked, so we went in. The interior smelled of oil, gasoline, and a hint of rotting garbage. A silver Honda Civic occupied most of the space. The usual garden tools, recycling tubs, and rollout trash bins lined the walls. Directly ahead, through a tiny storage room, a set of stairs ascended to a second story. We quietly climbed them. At the top, we assumed our back-to-the-wall formation, then Ollie knuckle-rapped the door.
“Ms. Devereaux?”
No answer.
“Aurora Devereaux.”
“Kiss off.” Muffled and slurry.
“It’s the police. Open up.”
“Go away.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“We’ll wait.”
“You want to peep my tits, it’ll cost twenty.”
“Put on some clothes.”
“You got a warrant?”
“I’d like to keep this friendly.”
“If you’ve got no warrant, you can kiss my patootie.”
“Your call. We talk here or downtown.”
“Screw you.”
“Actually, you’re the one who’ll be screwed. I’ve got witnesses say you’ve been turning tricks.”
“Big fucking—”
“—deal,” Ollie finished. “That’s not why we’re here.”
“Yeah? Then how’d I get so luc
ky?”
“Buddy heard you singing, asked me to drop off a recording contract.”
An object smacked the door, then ricocheted onto the floor. Glass shattered.
Ollie looked at us, one brow cocked. “I’m coming in now,” he said.
“Suit yourself. I’ve got plenty more lamps.”
Ollie inserted and turned the key.
Nothing hit the door. No footsteps pounded the floor.
Turning his body, Ollie palmed the door open and stepped sideways as far as he could. Ryan and I drew farther back against our wall.
Aurora Devereaux sat propped among pillows and a chaos of bedding.
I fought to keep the shock from my face.
DEVEREAUX HAD ASTONISHING BLUE EYES AND BOTTLE-BLOND hair that started low on her forehead. Her dark brows arched high, then plunged to form a hairy patch over the bridge of a nose that was short and ended in upturned nostrils. Her thin lips were parted, revealing wide-spaced and very crooked teeth.
I recognized the combination of traits. Cornelia de Lange Syndrome, or CdLS, a genetic condition caused by a gene alteration on the fifth chromosome.
Inexplicably, I flashed on a name I hadn’t thought of in almost four decades. Born six days apart to women living in Beverly on Chicago’s South Side, Dorothy Herrmann and I were inseparable from the time we could walk until my relocation to North Carolina at age eight. We called each other Rip and Rap. Dorothy peoples all of my earliest childhood memories.
Dorothy’s younger sister, Barbara, had CdLS. In the old snapshots, Barbara is among us neighborhood kids, wearing a Christmas sweater too long for her arms, dressed as Bo Peep for Halloween. Always her face is split by a smile, shame over her odd features and her jack-o’-lantern teeth far in the future.
Except for the bad bleach job and the bad attitude, Barbara Herrmann would have grown to be Aurora Devereaux’s twin. Had she lived.
I was at university when I learned of Barbara’s suicide. Dorothy and I had kept in touch, but caught up in my own self-centered teen world, I’d been oblivious to hints of her sister’s growing depression. Or, wanting life to be rosy, I’d chosen to ignore them. Barbara was happy, always smiling. Nothing was wrong.
Should I have acted? Might visits, letters, phone calls have prevented Barbara’s death? Of course not. Her own family had been unable to do that. Still, my insensitivity haunts me.
Devereaux sat with her tiny hands resting on her upraised knees. From the length of her torso and legs, I put her height at that of your average middle-schooler.
Like Barbara Herrmann, some CdLS individuals have subnormal mental ability. Based on the exchange with Ollie, I doubted that was the case with Devereaux.
“We’re coming in now.” Ollie’s voice had lost some of its tough cop tone. I could tell from his face that he, too, was shocked. Ditto Ryan, though he hid his reaction better.
Devereaux watched in silence as the three of us stepped from the top riser and circumvented the shattered lamp lying on a rectangle of tile inside the door.
The room was maybe twelve-by-twelve. In addition to the daybed, it held a wooden table and two captain’s chairs, a dresser, and shelving filled with a scramble of clothes, purses, toiletries, and magazines. The wall-mounted TV looked like something you’d see in a hospital.
The right side of the room was a kitchenette with an undersize fridge, a sink, and a stove arranged shotgun-style along one wall. Its floor was done in the same tile as the entrance, setting the space off from the carpeted living/sleeping area. The sink and small counter were heaped with dirty dishes and utensils, open cans, and the remains of fast-food meals.
From the kitchenette, a short corridor led to a closet and a bath. Both doors were open, and both overhead lights were on. The rooms looked like bombsites, with garments, linens, makeup, laundry, footwear, and a mix of unidentifiables jumbled on the floors and draped on the fixtures or hung haphazardly from doorknobs, towel and closet bars, and the shower rod.
Ollie plucked a shiny green robe from a chair and tossed it onto the bed. Devereaux ignored it.
“Foxy’s not happy,” Ollie began.
“Bitch never is.”
“Says you had a groovy high going last night.”
Devereaux raised a palm and one bare shoulder. So?
“Foxy wants you out.”
“Foxy wants a lot of things.”
“Do you have a lease?”
“Sure. I keep it in the safe-deposit box with my estate planning papers.”
“Then you have no legal right to stay.”
Devereaux said nothing.
“Time to go, Aurora.” Ollie sounded almost sympathetic.
Devereaux snatched a small plastic bottle from the bedside table. Raising her chin, she inhaled antihistamine into one nostril, then the other.
While waiting out the noisy process, I took in more detail. The place was devoid of personal items. No photos, fridge magnets, knickknacks, or macramé plant holders.
In addition to the antihistamine, the bedside table held a half-empty bottle of Pepto and a mound of bunched tissues. Recalling another symptom of CdLS—gastroesophageal reflux disease, a condition that can make eating unpleasant—I felt a wave of compassion for the childlike woman in the bed.
As Devereaux blew her nose with a thoroughness I had to admire, I edged toward the hall for a closer look at the closet, being as discreet as possible. My movement wasn’t lost on our hostile hostess.
“Where the hell’s she going?”
“Never mind her,” Ollie said.
“The fuck, never mind. I don’t like strangers sniffing through my undies.”
“Ms. Forex left a duffel in the closet,” I said. “We have permission to search it.”
The neon blues jumped to me. Their lashes were curly and perhaps the longest I’d ever seen.
“Ms. Forex,” delivered as a full-on sneer, “has the brainpower of a salami sandwich.”
“She was kind to you.”
The heavy brows winged up in surprise. “That what you call it? Kindness? I was her latest pity project.”
“Pity project?”
“Take in the flawed and make their lives bliss.”
“Was Annaliese Ruben flawed?” My compassion was losing out to dislike.
“She wasn’t Miss America.” Devereaux snorted, an ugly antihistamine-wet sound.
“You knew her?”
“I heard about her.”
“Where’s the duffel?” Curt. Ollie was fast losing patience.
“No clue.”
“Give it the old college try, Aurora.”
“You’ve got no warrant, you don’t get shit.”
“I’m trying to appeal to your good side, kiddo.”
“I don’t have a good side.”
“Fair enough. Let’s try another angle. I’ve got a landlady reporting illegal substances on her property. How about we toss the place, starting with this?”
Ollie lifted a shoulder bag from the floor beside the bed. The thing was metallic, with enough fringe to embarrass Dale Evans.
Devereaux arched forward at the waist and shot out an arm. “Give me that!”
Ollie held the purse just out of her reach.
“You bastard.”
Smiling, Ollie swung the bag like a pendulum.
“Bastard!”
Ollie pointed to the robe.
“Turn around!”
Ryan and I did. Ollie did not.
I heard movement, the swish of fabric, then a thumpy jangle as the purse hit the bed.
“Excellent.”
On hearing Ollie’s comment, Ryan and I turned back.
Devereaux was sitting sideways, lower legs over the edge of the mattress, toes not touching the carpet. She was wearing the robe and the same fuck-you pout.
Ollie repeated his question. “Where’s the duffel?”
“Closet shelf.”
“I believe you have some packing to do?”
“I’d rather eat dog
shit than spend one more day in this dump!”
Bag pressed to her chest, Devereaux scooched forward and dropped from the bed. Grabbing shorts and a top from the mess on the shelving, she strode to the bathroom and slammed the door.
Ryan, Ollie, and I were right on her heels.
The closet was a miniature walk-in with a long head-high bar on one wall and shorter double bars on the other. Dresses, tops, and skirts hung from hangers, most featuring bright colors and a whole lot of bling.
The floor was ankle-deep in shoes and soiled clothing. The latter filled the small space with a sweaty, syrupy scent.
A single shelf L’ed above both of the high bars, filled to capacity. Rolls of toilet tissue and paper towel. Shoe boxes. A printer. A blender. A fan. Plastic tubs whose contents I couldn’t identify.
I spotted the duffel in the corner where the long stretch right-angled into the short. It was olive-green polyester with black handles and a front zipper pouch. Wading through the muddle of Walmart fire-hazard chic, I pushed a handful of hanging garments aside. A stepladder lay against the baseboard. As I grabbed it, my eye took in something on the wall, half concealed by a large suitcase. My pulse quickened.
Later.
After backing out of the dresses, I positioned the ladder. Then, with Ryan acting as my spotter, I scampered up the rungs.
Three tugs and the duffel came free. Its weight suggested there was little inside.
I lowered the duffel to Ryan, who handed it to Ollie. We retraced our steps to the living room. Running water behind the bathroom door suggested Devereaux was still engaged in her morning toilette.
Ollie gestured for me to do the honors. I spread the duffel’s handles and yanked the zipper.
The bag held four objects. A pair of cheap plastic sunglasses with one cracked lens. A snow globe with a panda and butterflies inside. A rusty Bic razor. A tire-tread sandal probably dating to the Woodstock era.
“Our job is easy now.”
Ryan and I looked at Ollie.
“No way she’s not coming back for these jewels.”
No one smiled at Ollie’s joke.
“What about the front compartment?” Ryan suggested.
I checked. It was empty.
We were standing there, mute with disappointment, when the bathroom door opened. We all turned.
Devereaux’s hair was combed and sprayed into a blond updo, and her face was a Gauguin palette of color. Green and lavender lids. Rose cheeks. Red lips. Had her situation not been so sad, I might have found it comical. Like Toddlers & Tiaras.