Page 30 of Taking Turns

I get a dial tone after that, so I end the call and place the handset on the table. “Would you like to explain yourself?”

“I brought her here last night,” Smith says.

“What?” That’s Quin. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“She’s dark, man. So listen… she works at the Benton Gallery where Matisse is having his show this weekend, you know?”

I nod. I didn’t really make that connection when he gave me her business card yesterday, but all right.

“It was a long day of unloading pieces for the show. She didn’t eat dinner. So Matisse and I invited her here to eat.”

Quin knows where this is going, because he’s shaking his head and mumbling, “You fucking pervert. Why do you do this shit?”

But Smith is still looking at me. “She turned him down. So I went to her house to say she passed my test and I got inadvertently locked inside. I didn’t expect her to set the alarm when she got home. It wasn’t on when I broke in.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Quin asks.

Smith redirects his attention to Quin now. “Did you ever hear of the expression ‘two birds, one stone?’”

Quin looks at me. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

But we both know what he’s talking about. Smith wants Marcella. He thinks he can get Quin the information he needs and we can all have a replacement at the same time.

I’m silent as Quin stands up. “Fuck that girl. Fuck. That girl. I’m not in, OK? So if you assholes want to pair up and leave me out, feel free.”

Smith and I both watch Quin walk out. And then Smith looks back to me. “He’ll get over it. He’s just pissed off that she tricked him. But you know what? I kinda like that about her.” And then he nods to the headset on the table. “And I like that fucking screaming too.”

The rest of my day is not filled with enough distractions to keep Smith’s idea from percolating in my mind.

The screaming was hot.

When Smith brought her down the elevator the other night she didn’t look wild. She looked scared, actually. But the screaming tells me another story. It says she’s a fighter.

My mind is whirring with possibilities and ideas.

I did say I’d talk to Marcella about Rochelle for Quin. If only to get some semblance of closure about Rochelle’s state of mind and being.

So after I conclude my last phone call about the upcoming holiday events, I find the card on my desk at TPC and stare at it as I look out the window.

I call the gallery. It’s closed.

Smith has an address written down on the back of the card, but no phone number. So I call down to reception and tell them to bring my car up from the garage.

I clean my desk off, putting everything in its place before I leave, and then make my way down to the waiting car. It’s cold tonight, but no snow. So the traffic is light as I weave through the downtown streets and make my way over to Little Raven Street near Union Station. It’s one of those high-end areas just north of downtown. Every townhouse and condo on this street goes for over a million dollars. Well over a million, actually.

I scan the house numbers for her address and when I find it, I breathe a sigh of relief that the lights are on.

I park the car, get out, and walk up to her front gate. It’s short, but stately, made of wrought iron, and it doesn’t squeak when I open it and walk through. Her townhouse is three stories tall, plus a basement from the looks of the stairs I have to walk up to get to the front door. It’s modern, has lots of large windows and sharp lines, and when I peek inside, I can see a fire going in the large front room.

Nina Simone is singing about a new dawn and a new day and then I get a flash of the woman I came to see as she walks across the room on the far end of the first floor.

I press the button for the doorbell.

Marcella stops in the middle of the hallway and stares at me, staring at her.

She doesn’t move. Not one muscle. She’s absolutely still as she considers her options.

Will she call the police?