After a brief scrutiny of the interlopers, they yawned and lowered their heads to their paws and resumed their snooze. Jury reached out his hand and ran it over the silky head of one, which made the dog sigh.
There was a lot of butter leather interspersed with damask furniture and a ton of dark green velvet dripping down the long windows and puddling on the floor. Jury and Wiggins sat in club chairs from which Jury wondered if they would ever rise. There was something to be said for money.
It was one of those rooms one could only describe in accents of taste: luscious, delectable, ambrosial, scrumptious. The room’s rich brown walls and creamy moldings made Jury feel as if he were sunk in a chocolate mousse.
“What can I do for you? Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Santos. We’re looking into the death of a young woman named Mariah Cox.”
Jury saw a muscle tighten in Santos ’s handsome face, then relax when he heard the name, which Jury supposed meant nothing to him.
“I don’t know anyone of that name.”
“No, but you do-or did-know Stacy Storm. That was Mariah’s professional name, so to speak.”
Tightness returned and went to every muscle, not just the one in his face. He killed a little time by rising to get himself a fresh drink: a cube of ice plinked; a siphon hissed. He returned to the sofa.
Jury wondered if he’d be stupid enough to deny all knowledge of Stacy Storm.
No. Santos took a couple of swallows of his whiskey, then he returned to the sofa and said, “That was terrible. Awful. I was…” He had been leaning forward, glass dangerously loose in his fingers (considering the plummage-swept rug beneath it), and now he sat back to consider what he was: “Devastated.”
Jury studied the man’s expression and what it told of devastation, but he couldn’t read it.
It was Wiggins who asked, “How well did you know her, sir?”
Santos ’s smile was tight as he looked from Wiggins to Jury and back again. “I expect you know, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“No, actually, we don’t, other than that you, ah, engaged her on several occasions as a Valentine’s escort.”
“I did, yes.” The tone was bitter, and he looked away.
“What we’re interested in, though, is whether you saw her at other times; that is, as Ms. Storm’s flatmate put it: ‘off the books.’ Not as a Valentine’s escort.”
“Well, I expect she won’t get in trouble now with Valentine’s.”
“No, Stacy’s in as much trouble as she’ll ever be in again.”
Santos regarded him. “You say that, Superintendent, as if you sympathize.”
Jury said nothing, just went on looking at him.
“So, yes. We saw each other any number of times ‘off the books,’ as you say.”
Wiggins said, “What’s ‘any number’?”
“Every week in the last three months. She was only in London on weekends. Now I know why. I mean, if she was also, or really, another woman. Mariah?”
“Mariah Cox. So, getting down to it, Mr. Santos, you went to a party given by a couple named Rexroth last Saturday night, is that true?”
He nodded. “And you’re wondering, of course, how that’s connected to Stacy. She was to meet me there. I wanted to pick her up-wherever she was. You see, I didn’t know where the devil she was during the week. She’d never tell me-”
“You didn’t know she lived in Chesham?”
“No. She told me nothing.”
“When she was found, when Stacy Storm was found, she was wearing a dress bought at the Yves Saint Laurent shop on Sloane Street. And Jimmy Choo shoes, also Sloane Street. Did you buy her gifts like that?”
“Not gifts like that, but those very ones. That costume, those shoes. It was actually my idea. I wanted her to feel no woman in the room could touch her. Stacy was rather… I don’t know…”
Jury waited, but Santos still didn’t know.
“She was to meet you at the Rexroths’, was she? How did she come to be at the Black Cat?”
“Christ!” The dogs both
There was a lot of butter leather interspersed with damask furniture and a ton of dark green velvet dripping down the long windows and puddling on the floor. Jury and Wiggins sat in club chairs from which Jury wondered if they would ever rise. There was something to be said for money.
It was one of those rooms one could only describe in accents of taste: luscious, delectable, ambrosial, scrumptious. The room’s rich brown walls and creamy moldings made Jury feel as if he were sunk in a chocolate mousse.
“What can I do for you? Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Santos. We’re looking into the death of a young woman named Mariah Cox.”
Jury saw a muscle tighten in Santos ’s handsome face, then relax when he heard the name, which Jury supposed meant nothing to him.
“I don’t know anyone of that name.”
“No, but you do-or did-know Stacy Storm. That was Mariah’s professional name, so to speak.”
Tightness returned and went to every muscle, not just the one in his face. He killed a little time by rising to get himself a fresh drink: a cube of ice plinked; a siphon hissed. He returned to the sofa.
Jury wondered if he’d be stupid enough to deny all knowledge of Stacy Storm.
No. Santos took a couple of swallows of his whiskey, then he returned to the sofa and said, “That was terrible. Awful. I was…” He had been leaning forward, glass dangerously loose in his fingers (considering the plummage-swept rug beneath it), and now he sat back to consider what he was: “Devastated.”
Jury studied the man’s expression and what it told of devastation, but he couldn’t read it.
It was Wiggins who asked, “How well did you know her, sir?”
Santos ’s smile was tight as he looked from Wiggins to Jury and back again. “I expect you know, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“No, actually, we don’t, other than that you, ah, engaged her on several occasions as a Valentine’s escort.”
“I did, yes.” The tone was bitter, and he looked away.
“What we’re interested in, though, is whether you saw her at other times; that is, as Ms. Storm’s flatmate put it: ‘off the books.’ Not as a Valentine’s escort.”
“Well, I expect she won’t get in trouble now with Valentine’s.”
“No, Stacy’s in as much trouble as she’ll ever be in again.”
Santos regarded him. “You say that, Superintendent, as if you sympathize.”
Jury said nothing, just went on looking at him.
“So, yes. We saw each other any number of times ‘off the books,’ as you say.”
Wiggins said, “What’s ‘any number’?”
“Every week in the last three months. She was only in London on weekends. Now I know why. I mean, if she was also, or really, another woman. Mariah?”
“Mariah Cox. So, getting down to it, Mr. Santos, you went to a party given by a couple named Rexroth last Saturday night, is that true?”
He nodded. “And you’re wondering, of course, how that’s connected to Stacy. She was to meet me there. I wanted to pick her up-wherever she was. You see, I didn’t know where the devil she was during the week. She’d never tell me-”
“You didn’t know she lived in Chesham?”
“No. She told me nothing.”
“When she was found, when Stacy Storm was found, she was wearing a dress bought at the Yves Saint Laurent shop on Sloane Street. And Jimmy Choo shoes, also Sloane Street. Did you buy her gifts like that?”
“Not gifts like that, but those very ones. That costume, those shoes. It was actually my idea. I wanted her to feel no woman in the room could touch her. Stacy was rather… I don’t know…”
Jury waited, but Santos still didn’t know.
“She was to meet you at the Rexroths’, was she? How did she come to be at the Black Cat?”
“Christ!” The dogs both
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