Page 91 of Nothing More

“Reese is ass at this sort of thing – no hard feelings, love,” he said over his shoulder, as he tugged Toly’s tie straight, “but you know you are.”

Reese was slurping a slushie from the soft pretzel kiosk and shrugged.

“Plus, we’re about the same height,” Tenny said, “similar build, dark hair. This old bat wouldn’t be able to tell us apart if she saw us a second time, and it’ll fuck with the head of anyone who might be following us. Reese is gonna play gargoyle and be our eyes and ears.” On that, he thumbed a tiny earpiece into Toly’s ear and produced a comb and bottle of gel from his jacket pockets.

A half-hour later, they stood on the sidewalk in front of Alicia Newsome’s townhouse wearing identical black suits, similar ties, with their hair slicked dramatically back, sunglasses perched on their noses, features blurred with an expert application of a little foundation and bronzer. Toly had his earrings and lip ring in his pocket.

“Remember,” Tenny said, as he made a show of pushing his jacket off his fake badge and surveying the street. It was eerie how quickly he’d slipped into his role as a cop. “I do all the talking.”

“Yeah.” Given his undisguisable accent, that was a good call.

Tenny cracked his gum loudly, hitched up his belt, and pushed through the wrought-iron gate and up the front walk, Toly keeping a half-pace behind.

It was the grand sort of townhouse that not even the wealthiest of gangsters and mob bosses could afford. Toly wondered if it might be out of Raven’s price range, even. A heap of pale stone, black ironwork windows, creeping ivy, tidy front garden. The urns on the front stoop, little fir trees laced with lights for Christmas, were big enough to take a bath in.

He spotted movement in a window, and the door opened before Tenny could ring the bell. A formidable, iron-haired woman filled the doorway, a big-chested, matronly sort in a starched shirt, who had all the physical makings of a girls’ school headmistress. Though head and shoulders shorter, she managed to look down her nose at them.

“Well? What is it?”

“Mrs. Newsome?” Tenny asked, flawless American accent, strains of Staten Island.

The woman’s lashes lowered with contempt. “No. I’m the housekeeper, Miriam. Mrs. Newsome is resting.”

“We won’t take up too much of her time, then.” Tenny pulled his badge, flashed it along with his fake credentials. “Detective Alfred, and Detective Lorde. We’re here to follow-up with the theft Mrs. Newsome previously reported.”

Miriam leaned forward, one hand clutching the door frame, and squinted at the ID. A long moment. Toly had looked at it himself, earlier, and knew it was a remarkably good forgery. It could have fooled a trained eye, much less the likes of a snotty housekeeper.

Unable to find fault, she finally leaned back, lips pursed tight. She didn’t give ground. “Is this about the ring? That wasmonthsago.” Her gaze swapped between them, accusatory Why haven’t you found it already?

“New information’s come to light.” Tenny’s voice had a just-right blend of authority and politeness; he wasn’t rude, but firm, jaw set at an angle that screamed Law Enforcement.

Still, Miriam didn’t budge. “What information?”

“I’m afraid I can only discuss that with Mrs. Newsome. If you’ll let her know we’re here, please.”

The pursed lips squeezed up even tighter. “I told you: she’s resting.”

“Fine, then. My partner and I’ll just sit here on the front steps until she’s awake. Does that work for you?”

The first crack appeared in the battleax façade. She craned her neck to peer across the fronts of the neighboring houses in either direction. Here they were, in this posh neighborhood, in their Macy’s suits, and aviator shades, their wingtips and boring ties: woefully out of place. Obviously laymen. Neighbors would peek through curtains; questions would be posed; gossip would ignite like a grease fire, impossible to douse.

With a sharp sigh through flared nostrils, she finally stepped back. “This way. You can’t stay long, though.”

“Oh, we don’t intend to, ma’am.” Tenny made a show of scuffing his shoes across a welcome mat that was clearly meant to be decorative, rather than useful, and earned a murderous glare for it.

Opulentwas the word for the place. Ostentatious, rather than elegant. Raven would have simplified and then simplified again. Everything here dripped crystals, or tassels, was swagged in velvets and brocades, footfalls softened by rugs in every shade of pink. Beaded lampshades, curlicue chandeliers, fringed pillows, and knickknacks perched on complicated lace doilies.

“It’s like someone’s grandmother threw up in here,” Tenny whispered, when Miriam had left them alone in a sitting room. They were both seated on a teal couch, beneath a pastoral painting. A window overlooked a patio where the trees were hung with at least a dozen birdfeeders; finches and cardinals flickered from perch to perch, bright flashes of color in a dormant gray garden.

Toly got up and walked to the mantel, where a white ceramic clock flanked by shepherdesses and lambs ticked the seconds away. A mirror was hung above it, and he was startled by his reflection. Pushed his shades up to get a better look. The makeup had been applied carefully enough that it wasn’t noticeable, but the angle of his nose had been blunted, his deep-set eyes brought forward and brightened by concealer. It was odd that he looked both older and younger; less of a punk, with his hair slicked and his jewelry tucked away, but it looked obvious, he thought, that he was not yet thirty. He didn’t look like he did at the agency, dolled up in one of Raven’s suits, with his eyeliner. Simpler. Purer, almost.

He didn’t look like a gangster, he realized with a start. Nor a Lean Dog, nor a model, nor a modeling agent’s assistant. He just looked…

“Admiring the view?” Tenny quipped behind him.

Toly turned – and heard footfalls approaching. Two sets, both slow. One with a heavy tread, the other uncertain and careful; the scuff of what sounded like a cane.

“Go over by the window,” Tenny instructed. “Watch her.”