“I...find something—some dirt—that proves rival is bad news.”
“How will you find dirt?” She rubs his erection.
Jon’s vision swirls. He nods. “PI. I hired a PI.”
She smiles. “And who’s this rival, JonJon BergBomber?” she whispers near his ear. The wet tip of her tongue touches his lobe.
“Ah—Ahmed Waheed. Tell me about you, Mia...your—”
“Come upstairs with me, Jon.” Her breath is hot in his ear. “I have an Airbnb upstairs. I have a nightcap waiting. We can continue up there. Come.” She takes his hand. “Come with me.”
Jon isn’t sure if he is dreaming, or totally plastered. How many whiskies and beers did he have? He knows he definitely had several shots of tequila before he arrived. He’s lost track.
They’re in the elevator. Kissing. He cups her butt with his hands, pulls her pelvis against his thigh as the elevator climbs, climbs. He can’t remember getting to the elevator. Or into it. Or to her suite. They are backing into her suite. She’s kissing him, her tongue deep inside his mouth.
They’re inside a bedroom. Low bed. Walls of glass that look out over the city lights. What part of the city is this? It looks different. He hasn’t seen this aspect. There’s a flashing pink neon sign. John squints at the pulsating pink sign.CABARETLUXE. He recognizes that sign. He’s taken clients there before. Yes, he realizes where they are. Yaletown area. Trendy. They must be looking out toward False Creek. Mia is undoing his tie, his shirt. Her hands are on his bare chest, sliding his shirt off his shoulders. She’s laughing, pushing him backward onto the bed.
She pulls up her dress, straddles him. Just glass, he thinks as Mia undoes his zipper, only glass windows between him and Mia and all those sparkling lights of the city and all those high-rise condo windows looking back at them. Another vague thought forms in his brain—anyone could be watching them from any one of a million windows...then he can think only of what she is doing to his body. Everything else spins away in a blur.
MAL
November 1, 2019. Friday.
“Let me get this straight,” Mal says to Lula on the phone. “Vanessa North claims she’snotpregnant, and she and her husband have been in Singapore for the last six months?”
“Correct. The Norths are both citizens of the Republic of Singapore,” Lula says. “Haruto is a banker with Singapore-Pacific International. He spends a few months each year at the bank’s North American headquarters located in Vancouver, which is when he and his wife plan to reside at the Glass House. They’re due back in January. They were in the house only two months before they left again for Singapore. Vanessa is originally Canadian. She works for an NGO and travels a lot throughout Africa. We’ve confirmed these details with our Interpol liaison. I’m forwarding you photos of the Norths and copies of their passport details. They claim to have no knowledge of what has occurred at their home. They’ve used Holly’s Help since May 1 to maintain their property and keep a check on the gardening service and security system while they’re away. The Norths do not know which specific maid services their home, and say they have not met Kit Darling.”
Beulah Brown’s words rise in Mal’s mind.
She’s certainly showing now. I saw Vanessa last Friday. It was the first time I saw that brunette as well. The two of them had a late lunch by the pool. It was very clear they’re both pregnant.
“Yet Beulah Brown claims she saw Vanessa North last Friday, having lunch by the pool with Daisy Rittenberg, and that she definitely was pregnant,” Mal says.
“Well, it couldn’t have been her. I’ve confirmed the Norths’ details,” Lula says. “They have not been on Canadian soil for just over six months.”
Mal thanks Lula and immediately calls Benoit.
“That could explain that cold, staged, and unlived-in feeling in that house,” Benoit says.
“But it sure as hell doesn’t explain anything else.”
“You think Brown was just mistaken?” he asks. “Those opioids can really mess with one’s sense of reality. And we do have Horton Brown on record saying his mother imagines things; plus there’s a history of five false 911 calls.”
“Or...Beulah Brown saw someone shethoughtwas Vanessa,” Mal says. “She did mention her prescription glasses had been failing her, and that she only had the new binoculars for two weeks. Plus if the Norths acquired the Glass House eight months ago, and were only there for two months before departing for Singapore, perhaps Brown never really got a close look at the real Vanessa when she was in town. Perhaps Brown just made an assumption it was the same person.”
“Well, we can cross Vanessa North off our possible victim list. It’s not looking good for Darling now.”
JON
October 29, 2019. Tuesday.
Two days before the murder.
When Jon wakes, his head is thick. The last thing he remembers is laughing. He struggles to orient himself. Nothing makes sense. He’s in a bed. Naked. He can see city lights. A pulsing pink neon sign. He feels sick. So sick. Nauseous. He tries to sit up, but his world spins and his arm jerks him back—it’s secured to the bed. His stomach clutches, and he throws up over the side of the bed onto the carpet. The smell makes him gag again. He wipes spittle from his mouth with the back of his free hand. He winces, turns his head. Shock slams through him.
His wrist is cuffed to the bed frame. Handcuffs—paddedhandcuffs. He yanks his hand. It’s locked. Panic strikes. He can’t breathe. His vision starts narrowing from the sides. He’s sweaty, hot.
Focus. Panic kills. Think. What happened? How did I get here?
