29

I lied. It took me almost an hour, what with changing clothes, waking Paolina, dialing Gloria, making sure Paolina felt okay about staying home alone, assuring her that Gloria was a phone call away.

Oh, and I had to run back upstairs to get the nicely altered passport Paco had been civil enough to drop.

As I drove, I found myself peering down empty cross streets, checking the surroundings the way I used to when I was a cop on patrol. Searching the black-and-white shadows for Emily Woodrow. Wishing I knew her haunts, knew exactly where to focus. Hoping I’d find her before Mooney. Or she’d find me.

Had she killed Tina?

Had Tina killed Rebecca?

Was that what it was all about—an eye for an eye?

Or had a third party killed both Tina and Emily? Tina, for what she knew about Rebecca’s death; Emily, because she’d learned the secret from Tina.

I blared an old Taj Mahal tape full volume. The music filled my head, answered no questions.

South Station has been recently renovated. An interior designer crisscrossed the floor and walls with beige-and-raspberry tiles, put in a French bakery, and sold vendor permits to hawkers with cute green carts filled with ties, fudge, and sun hats, as well as toys to bring home to the kiddies. Huge fans did their best to circulate the cigarette smoke and train fumes. You can get your shoes shined, buy a bouquet of fresh flowers and a chocolate croissant. The hurrying footsteps, whooshing doors, groaning diesel engines, and clanging bells are all that remind you that you’re not in a shopping mall.

The oyster bar is tucked in a street-level corner.

I recognized a couple of veteran prostitutes right off, old friends I’d rousted years ago, no doubt rehabilitated through the wonders of our prison system and social service agencies. One was giving a brazenly outfitted hooker the unfriendly glare reserved for new talent on already-taken turf.

It took me a minute to realize that the woman of the hour, the one drawing hostile eyes, was Roz.

I guess she figured that with her clothes sense and general flair, there was no point in shooting for subtlety. But green hair, I thought, except on St. Patrick’s Day, is going a little far.

Her wig made the stuff they sew on the heads of Barbie dolls look real. Nor had she taken my advice about conservative clothing—not that I’m naïve enough to think Roz possesses a knee-length shirtwaist dress. Her low-cut green taffeta number looked like a fifties prom dress gone astray.

One thing you have to say for her: She didn’t look like the shaved-headed, black-clad karate warrior of the airport. No way would Sanchez link the two. Roz wore spike heels to change her height. Glasses completed the ensemble. Harlequins, with rhinestones in the corners.

She didn’t look like anyone I knew. Or wanted to know.

“Don’t worry, Yolanda,” I murmured to the tiny platinum-haired pro. “You are totally out of her league.”

“Hey. You back with the cops?”

“Relax.”

“No, sugar. You check that babe. She’s young and hot and she ain’t let go that dude all night. Man couldn’t even take a pee if he wanted one. And look at the bod on her. She’s messin’ up business is what.”

“Good,” I said. “She works for me.”

“You pimpin’ now? Hell.”

“Yolanda! I’m private heat, and she is, too. Go peddle it someplace else.”

“You gonna bring cops on me?”

“You’re hopeless,” I said. “Go home.”

“Spot me twenty?”

“Ten,” I said. “Home.”

“Later, babe.”

I caught Roz’s eye and she sagged with relief. I could see her point. Even after Paolina had sung his praises, I couldn’t ID the sterling qualities in Paco Sanchez.

Either he hadn’t changed clothes since the weekend or he had many identical T-shirts and bagged-out jeans. His five-o’clock shadow had turned into scruffy three-day growth. His eyes looked bloodshot under the fluorescents.

“Hey,” I said, approaching Sanchez and borrowing Yolanda’s all-purpose greeting.

His face changed when he saw me. He recognized me, no doubt about it.

“Don’t go anyplace till we’ve talked,” I said.

“And why the hell not?” he blustered.

“Cause this green-haired lady, the one you been boring to death with your sorry life story, will be glad to kick you where it hurts anytime I say. Right, Roz?”

“How about now?” she said. “What took you—”

“Hang on a minute.” I removed the doctored passport from my purse, held it well out of Sanchez’s reach. He grabbed for it anyway. “Something you want?” I asked, tucking it out of sight.

“Hey,” he said. “Maybe we can deal.”

“Exactly what I had in mind,” I said. “Roz, why don’t you take a walk?”

“Can I stay in sight? Just in case? I’d like to kick him.”

“The restroom, Roz. Lose the hair.”

“That’s a wig?” Paco said. He sounded disappointed.

“Let’s deal,” I said.