False Impressions. Laura Caldwell
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to be found.
When I returned to our table, Muriel came up. “How was your night?”
“Delightful,” I answered. “I love your place. I wouldn’t have known about it if it wasn’t for Madeline.”
“Madeline,” Muriel repeated with a smile. “Isn’t she incredible?”
I nodded quickly. “She is.”
“She paid the bill,” Muriel said, “so stay and enjoy yourself as long as you want. Let us know if we can get anything for you.” She smiled beatifically.
It was only then I realized Madeline was gone.
7
As I left the club, two doormen stood there, both huge, dressed in shearling coats and hats.
“Hi guys,” I said. “Did you see a woman leave here recently?”
“Uh, yeah,” one said, and I could tell he wanted to add, duh.
Muriel had said she didn’t know why Madeline left, but that nothing had seemed odd. Madeline had told them to put everything on her tab, and that was that.
“She’s a Japanese woman,” I said to the bouncers.
Neither responded.
“She’s really beautiful,” I said.
“Lotta pretty women here,” the other bouncer said.
I thanked them and left, stepping onto the sidewalk. Like a dark painting, the canvas outside was mostly black. Steel charcoal-gray beams slashed back and forth overhead, carrying lit boxes—the El train carting people east and west. Aside from the train, the neighborhood was desolate, very few cars.
Suddenly I wondered if Madeline was sick. Could that be why she had left so quickly? I walked up the block, looking in alleys. No sign of her.
I walked back, past the club and down a few blocks, doing the same thing. I was thankful I didn’t find her throwing up in an alley, but I was still worried.
I pulled my phone out of my purse. I texted, Hi, it’s Izzy. You okay?
I paced the sidewalk again, hoping for a reply. An occasional car passed. It had snowed a little since we were inside, and the tires from each car shot a little spray of slush onto the street.
I tried calling her. Nothing.
I tried again. This time I left a message. Hi Madeline. Sounds like you left. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Can you call me?
I couldn’t shake what she had described—feeling like someone had been in her place.
One more round of pacing the sidewalk, then I decided it was time to go. I started searching for a cab but saw none.
I was making my way back to the club, to ask the doormen for help, when a sudden flurry of white and blue pulled to the curb. A Chicago police car.
The front door opened. A man stepped out. He wore a big gray jacket, bulky, not because he was fat but because he was wearing a bulletproof vest. You got used to the look in Chicago.
He turned to me. And I got a flash of a memory.
I opened my mouth. I could find only one word. “Vaughn.”
8
Neither of them noticed anyone but each other that night, not Madeline or the redhead.
For nearly two hours they talked, a friendship seeming to grow on the spot. How easy it was for Madeline to connect with people when she wanted. It was always about what she wanted.
They drank the martinis Madeline loved, their camaraderie, their growing interest in each other obvious.
Then the redhead was alone. She was looking around, apparently for Madeline, who had been gone from the table for quite a while. It was almost laughable. At least someone else was being treated badly by Madeline Saga, being ignored and made to feel as if they were nothing.
So, really, it wasn’t surprising that neither of the women had noticed someone watching them.
But the cop who had shown up? That had been a surprise. The redhead was walking up and down the street when the police car had arrived.
She and the cop talked, then the redhead got into the car. What had the woman done? And yet, the redhead hadn’t been handcuffed. Was she being taken in for some kind of questioning? Could this be about what was going on with Madeline’s art? What was going on here?
A short time ago, just inside the club, there had been amusement that someone else was being treated poorly by Madeline Saga. And yet now there was only fear, a sense of being out of control.
There was a measure of relief when the police car pulled away.
9
“This is my first time in the back of a cop car,” I said.
Vaughn had offered me a ride home. Since there was a dearth of cabs, I agreed. But I had to ride in the back. “Protocol,” he’d said.
From the front, I heard Vaughn scoff. “Seems like you would have seen a lot of that real estate back there.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah,” he said, “for all the trouble you find yourself in.”
“Excuse me?” I repeated. “I do not find trouble.” That was untrue, but I wasn’t about to admit anything to Detective Damon Vaughn.
Detective Vaughn had made my life hell a couple of times—first when Sam had disappeared and second when he’d suspected me of killing one of my friends. In a stroke of brilliant luck (or maybe just the gods in my universe doling out some karma) I’d gotten the chance to cross-examine him at a trial recently. And let’s just say it was the best cross of my career. We’d mended fences after that, even shared a couple of cocktails. But the fact remained that no one could irk me like Vaughn.
“Why do you always have to be so nasty?” I asked.
“I’m not. I’m just stating the truth. You get in a lot of trouble.”
“Oh, fork you, I do not!” Again, I was shading the truth. Trouble did find me, but I didn’t usually bring it upon myself. At least, to my mind.
“You could have gotten into some trouble at that bar,” Vaughn pointed out. “That’s why I showed up there.”
“What do you mean?” I asked the back of Vaughn’s head as he turned the car on Franklin Street. His hair was shot through with gray, but he was one of those guys who had a lot of hair, probably always would.
“The owner is a buddy of mine,” Vaughn said. “He calls me when he’s got issues but doesn’t want to involve 911. He had an issue tonight.”
“What kind of issue?”
“Suspected prostitution.”
“Really? Yeah, I guess that’s a good way for a bar owner to get closed down—having girls making money that way.”
Vaughn stopped at a light, turned around. He had a rugged face and brown eyes. Those eyes were squinting at me. He shook his head. “You’re the girl he thought was trying to make money that way.”
“What?”
“He said that they had this girl walking up and down the street over and over, as if she was looking for someone. In general, that’s pretty indicative. That’s why they call it ‘street-walking.’”
“My friend was gone,” I said. “I was looking for her! She just disappeared without saying anything. She paid the bill, but I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t have let me know she was leaving. I was afraid she was sick or something.”