Night Film

61

I handed the printed page back to Nora.

“Why would Ashley go back to Rising Dragon for the photo?” Nora asked. She was sitting on the couch, Septimus fluttering along the armrest.

“Maybe the photo had a clue in it,” I said. “Something to help her track down this Spider.”

“The Spider might have the missing half of the tattoo.”

I leaned forward, scanning the timeline of Ashley’s movements I’d typed on my laptop. “Devold broke Ashley out of Briarwood on September thirtieth. She turned up at Klavierhaus and played a Fazioli piano on October fourth. Rising Dragon Tattoos on the fifth. Two days later, on the seventh, she reappeared at Klavierhaus. According to the manager, Peter Schmid, she looked unkempt and behaved strangely. On the tenth, she mailed Hopper the package, visited the Four Seasons bar, and hours later fell or jumped or was pushed to her death that night. Somewhere within this eleven-day time frame she checked into 83 Henry Street and appeared at Oubliette and the Waldorf Towers.”

And last but not least—she went to the Reservoir.

“It’s almost as if she was visiting important places a final time,” Nora said, “tying up loose ends, taking a last look around, just before she …” She was unable to finish the thought.

“Before she killed herself,” I finished.

She nodded reluctantly.

“Or before someone she was hiding from — or chasing — caught up to her.”

“Someone like the Spider,” Nora said.

There had to be some hidden reason that would give perfect logic to Ashley’s wanderings, a reason that wasn’t a resolve to commit suicide. What had Peg Martin said about the family? They mopped life up with themselves. None of them were encumbered by anything. There were no limits. A desire to die at twenty-four wasn’t in keeping with that or anything we learned about Ashley. And if the Cordovas weren’t afraid of what I might uncover, Theo Cordova wouldn’t have been following me.

I grabbed my phone, buzzing with an incoming email.

To: Scott B. McGrath

From: Stu

FW: Your Client

31 Oct 2011 13:59

McGrath:

This morning I received an interesting request. See below.

Fondly,

Stu

P.S. Are you alive?

---------

To: Stuart Laughton

From: Assistant

Subject: Your Client

Dear Mr. Laughton:

Mrs. Olivia Endicott du Pont would like to speak with your client, the investigative reporter Scott McGrath. Could you forward this email to him so he might get in touch?

Ms. du Pont has a matter of the utmost importance she would like to discuss with him.

Very truly yours,

Louise Burne

Personal Assistant to Mrs. Olivia E. du Pont

(212) 555-9290

I hadn’t heard from my attorney, Stu Laughton, since I was marooned at that charity cocktail party weeks ago. He’d sent me a text alerting me to the news of Ashley’s death, asking me to call him.

I hadn’t. Stu was a British aristocrat and inveterate gossip, and if I gave him the slightest hint that I might be returning to my investigation of Cordova, everyone from here to McMurdo Station, Antarctica, would know.

I dialed his office.

His assistant answered. After putting me on hold, she informed me, “Mr. Laughton is in a meeting,” which meant Stu was sitting at his desk eating an egg-salad sandwich, playing computer solitaire, and would call me back when he was in the mood.

To my surprise, it was just two minutes later.