Men Are Trouble | Page 5

she could follow directions. Problem was she never really got close to the customers, always acting like this was just a pitstop. Kept to herself mostly, which was how I could tell she was excited about getting married. It wasn't like her to babble."
"And the bride?"
"Some Indian fluff -- Rashy or something."
"Rashmi Jones."
She nodded. "Her I never met."
"Did she go to school?"
"Must have done high school, but damned if I know where. Didn't make much of an impression, I'd say. College, no way." She opened a drawer where a flock of colored vials was nesting. "You want polish or clear coat on the nails?"
"No color. It's bad for business."
She leered at me. "Business is good?"
"You say she did massage for you?" I said. "Where did she pick that up?"
"Hold still now." Noreen uncapped the vial; the milky liquid that clung to the brush smelled like super glue's evil twin. "This is fast dry." She painted the stuff onto my nails with short, confident strokes. "Kate claimed her mom taught her. Said she used to work at the health club at the Radisson before it closed down."
"Did the mom have a name?"
"Yeah." Noreen chewed her lower lip as she worked. "Mom. Give the other hand."
I extended my arm. "So if Kate didn't live here, where she did live?"
"Someplace. Was on her application." She kept her head down until she'd finished. "You're done. Wave them around a little -- that's it."
After a moment, I let my arms drop to my side. We stared at each other. Then Noreen heaved herself off the stool and led me back out to the reception room.
"That'll be a eighty cents for the manicure, fluff." She waved her desktop on. "You planning on leaving a tip?"
I pulled out the sidekick and beamed two dollars at the desk. Noreen opened the payment icon, grunted her approval and then opened another folder. "Says here she lives at 44 East Washington Avenue."
I groaned.
"Something wrong?"
"I already have that address."
"Got her call too? [email protected]."
"No, that's good. Thanks." I went to the door and paused. I don't know why I needed to say anything else to her, but I did. "I help people, Noreen. Or at least I try. It's a real job, something bots can't do."
She just stood there, kneading the bad hip with a big, dry hand.
I unchained my bike, pedaled around the block and then pulled over. I read Kate Vermeil's call into my sidekick. Her sidekick picked up on the sixth chirp. There was no pix.
"You haven't reached Kate yet, but your luck might change if you leave a message at the beep." She put on the kind of low, smoky voice that doesn't come out to play until dark. It was a nice act.
"Hi Kate," I said. "My name is Fay Hardaway and I'm a friend of Rashmi Jones. She asked me to give you a message about yesterday so please give me a call at [email protected]." I wasn't really expecting her to respond, but it didn't hurt to try.
I was on my way to 44 East Washington Avenue when my sidekick chirped in the pocket of my slacks. I picked up. Rashmi Jones's mom, Najma, stared at me from the screen with eyes as deep as wells.
"The police came," she said. "They said you were supposed to notify them first. They want to speak to you again."
They would. So I'd called the law after I called the mom -- they'd get over it. You don't tell a mother that her daughter is dead and then ask her to act surprised when the cops come knocking. "I was working for you, not them."
"I want to see you."
"I understand."
"I hired you to find my daughter."
"I did," I said. "Twice." I was sorry as soon as I said it.
She glanced away; I could hear squeaky voices in the background. "I want to know everything," she said. "I want to know how close you came."
"I've started a report. Let me finish it and I'll bring it by later ...
"Now," she said. "I'm at school. My lunch starts at eleven-fifty and I have recess duty at twelve-fifteen." She clicked off.
I had nothing to feel guilty about, so why was I tempted to wriggle down a storm drain and find the deepest sewer in town? Because a mom believed that I hadn't worked fast enough or smart enough to save her daughter? Someone needed to remind these people that I didn't fix lost things, I just found them. But that someone wouldn't be me. My play now was simply to stroll into her school and let her beat me about the head with her grief. I could take it. I ate old Bogart movies for breakfast and spit out bullets. And at the end of this cocked day, I could just forget about