looked up, disturbed, first glancing at Santos, then at the two strangers, as if they, the dogs, were making up their minds about them. They resettled themselves when Simon Santos spoke in a quieter tone. “Do you think I haven’t asked myself that a hundred times? I’ve no idea.”
“No idea?”
He shook his head. “The Black Cat must’ve been part of her other life…” He shrugged. Then he sat forward, rolling the whiskey glass in his hands, forearms on knees. “I could never quite take her measure. There was something I didn’t get about her. What I thought was that there was somebody else, some other man. Which she denied.”
“What time did you leave the Rexroths’ party?”
“About ten, I think. When she didn’t come and still didn’t, I had no reason to stick around.”
“You came back to London? To here?”
Santos looked a mite surprised Jury would even wonder about this. “Yes, of course.”
“I only meant you might have stopped off someplace, to have a drink, get a bite to eat, somewhere along the way.”
Santos shook his head, looked at the dogs, sleeping soundly, looked up at Jury, puzzled. “I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”
Wiggins half-smiled. “Are you, sir? About what?”
“Well, for God’s sake, I’m a bloody suspect!”
Dogs awake again, looking worried.
Looking at the anxious dogs, he sat back and lowered his voice a little. “A suspect without an alibi. To answer your question: No, I didn’t stop off to eat or for any other reason. I came directly home, had a nightcap, and went upstairs to bed. No telephone calls, nothing. Just me alone.”
The way he said it, without self-pity, held an awful poignance.
Jury said, “Is it correct to assume Stacy meant a lot to you? Your meetings… well, they were more than a casual arrangement.”
Santos glanced up at the portrait, then looked away. He nodded. “Much more. At least on my part. Stacy-as I said, Stacy was difficult to read. She was extremely kind, and I might have misinterpreted the kindness as love.” He paused, then said, “Mariah Cox, Stacy’s other self, what was she like?”
Jury told Simon Santos about Mariah’s rather circumscribed life, lacking glamour, lacking Saint Laurent, lacking those bejeweled shoes that lined the walls of Jimmy Choo. But he left out Bobby Devlin.
Then he rose, nodded to Wiggins. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Santos. We’d appreciate it if you’d stay in London for a time.”
Simon Santos had risen too as Jury said this and stood, hands in pockets, looking uncertain and rather bereft. He was directly beneath the portrait over the fireplace, and Jury could see the resemblance.
Santos followed his glance and turned to look back at the portrait. “My mother, Isabelle. Beautiful, wasn’t she?”
That needed no confirmation. “I see the resemblance between you,” said Jury. But one not nearly so strong as the resemblance between the woman in the portrait and Mariah Cox.
This must have been Simon Santos’s obsession.
Jury thought of Lu Aguilar; he knew about obsession.
“What do you think, sir? Here’s what I can’t understand: a man like that, got everything going for him and a ton of money besides. Must have women lined up on his doorstep. So why does a man like that go and hire an escort, a tart? Doesn’t make sense.”
She wasn’t a tart, Jury wanted to say yet knew he had no business saying. “You saw the photo of Stacy.”
“Yes-”
“You don’t see the resemblance to Isabelle Santos? Stacy Storm was solace.”
They were standing by the car in Pont Street. “You want me to drop you in Islington? Then I’ll take the car in.”
Jury shook his head. “I’m taking a cab. I want to go to the City.”
“It’s near seven. What for?”
“The Old Wine Shades.” Jury pulled the Rexroths’ guest list out of his pocket, smiling.
Wiggins snuffled up a laugh. “Harry Johnson.”
“Right. I can hardly wait to hear him on this.” Jury held up the
“No idea?”
He shook his head. “The Black Cat must’ve been part of her other life…” He shrugged. Then he sat forward, rolling the whiskey glass in his hands, forearms on knees. “I could never quite take her measure. There was something I didn’t get about her. What I thought was that there was somebody else, some other man. Which she denied.”
“What time did you leave the Rexroths’ party?”
“About ten, I think. When she didn’t come and still didn’t, I had no reason to stick around.”
“You came back to London? To here?”
Santos looked a mite surprised Jury would even wonder about this. “Yes, of course.”
“I only meant you might have stopped off someplace, to have a drink, get a bite to eat, somewhere along the way.”
Santos shook his head, looked at the dogs, sleeping soundly, looked up at Jury, puzzled. “I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”
Wiggins half-smiled. “Are you, sir? About what?”
“Well, for God’s sake, I’m a bloody suspect!”
Dogs awake again, looking worried.
Looking at the anxious dogs, he sat back and lowered his voice a little. “A suspect without an alibi. To answer your question: No, I didn’t stop off to eat or for any other reason. I came directly home, had a nightcap, and went upstairs to bed. No telephone calls, nothing. Just me alone.”
The way he said it, without self-pity, held an awful poignance.
Jury said, “Is it correct to assume Stacy meant a lot to you? Your meetings… well, they were more than a casual arrangement.”
Santos glanced up at the portrait, then looked away. He nodded. “Much more. At least on my part. Stacy-as I said, Stacy was difficult to read. She was extremely kind, and I might have misinterpreted the kindness as love.” He paused, then said, “Mariah Cox, Stacy’s other self, what was she like?”
Jury told Simon Santos about Mariah’s rather circumscribed life, lacking glamour, lacking Saint Laurent, lacking those bejeweled shoes that lined the walls of Jimmy Choo. But he left out Bobby Devlin.
Then he rose, nodded to Wiggins. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Santos. We’d appreciate it if you’d stay in London for a time.”
Simon Santos had risen too as Jury said this and stood, hands in pockets, looking uncertain and rather bereft. He was directly beneath the portrait over the fireplace, and Jury could see the resemblance.
Santos followed his glance and turned to look back at the portrait. “My mother, Isabelle. Beautiful, wasn’t she?”
That needed no confirmation. “I see the resemblance between you,” said Jury. But one not nearly so strong as the resemblance between the woman in the portrait and Mariah Cox.
This must have been Simon Santos’s obsession.
Jury thought of Lu Aguilar; he knew about obsession.
“What do you think, sir? Here’s what I can’t understand: a man like that, got everything going for him and a ton of money besides. Must have women lined up on his doorstep. So why does a man like that go and hire an escort, a tart? Doesn’t make sense.”
She wasn’t a tart, Jury wanted to say yet knew he had no business saying. “You saw the photo of Stacy.”
“Yes-”
“You don’t see the resemblance to Isabelle Santos? Stacy Storm was solace.”
They were standing by the car in Pont Street. “You want me to drop you in Islington? Then I’ll take the car in.”
Jury shook his head. “I’m taking a cab. I want to go to the City.”
“It’s near seven. What for?”
“The Old Wine Shades.” Jury pulled the Rexroths’ guest list out of his pocket, smiling.
Wiggins snuffled up a laugh. “Harry Johnson.”
“Right. I can hardly wait to hear him on this.” Jury held up the
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