BY THE TIME GREGOR Demarkian and John Jackman got downtown to Julianne Corbett’s constituent office, the clouds were pasted across the sky as far as anybody could see, and they were dead black. The rain was thick and hot and heavy in the air. The lightning was random and sharp and the thunder was loud and deep and much too close. Gregor could remember only one other storm in his life that was anything like this, and that had been a full-scale hurricane, lashing at an island he hadn’t wanted to be on in the first place. Somehow, in spite of the fact that there was nothing for the wind to blow against here but solid brick, this was worse. The taller buildings all looked blank and uninhabited, like the buildings on the eastern side of the old Berlin Wall. The few places where there were lights looked just plain wrong. This was a relatively old section of the city, although not as old as the one around Independence Hall. The buildings here had metal fire escapes fastened into the backs of them and windows that opened so that people could get some air or jump. The cars parked against the curbs were either old or oddly tentative, as if they wished they were someplace else. Gregor saw at least six of those metal steering-wheel clamps, the suburbanites’ vehicular protection against the big city. Gregor had no idea if it worked.
John Jackman got a couple of umbrellas out of the trunk of his car and handed one to Gregor. By the time he had gone through all the motions, he was already soaking wet.
“God only knows what these are going to do,” he said. “The office is only over there.”
Gregor looked “over there.” The big plate-glass revolving doors were still and dark. On the floors above the street, almost all the windows were lit up. People were working.
“Does she know we’re coming?” he asked.
“I called her up and told her this morning, just the way you told me to. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course I know what I’m doing,” Gregor said.
The street was empty of traffic and very wet. Gregor strode across it, jaywalking and not caring if he did, and went in through the revolving doors. John Jackman followed him and went to stand by the elevators. Gregor stood next to the small newsstand and looked at the magazines. Whoever was supposed to man the newsstand was missing. He and Jackman were the only people in the lobby. The magazines looked damp and wilted in spite of the fact that they had been safely out of the rain. The one Bride’s magazine looked positively grim.
“It must be something psychological,” Gregor said. “Every picture of every bride I see lately looks grim.”
“Let’s go,” John Jackman said. “Here’s the elevator.”
Gregor made himself stop wondering what was going wrong with this poor bride’s marriage—she wasn’t even a real bride, for God’s sake, she was just a model—and went to join John in the elevator. John pushed the button for Julianne Corbett’s floor and looked up at the ceiling.
“You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” John Jackman said again. “You haven’t lost it all somewhere along the line? You aren’t about to get me in some kind of trouble I won’t be able to get out of?”
“I’m taking the next logical step. We have to find Patsy MacLaren.”
“Who doesn’t exist.”
“We have to find her anyway. And the best place to start is with the last person who saw her alive.”
“Which Patsy MacLaren are we talking about here?”
“There’s only one,” Gregor Demarkian said.
The elevator opened at Julianne Corbett’s floor. The hallway felt too cold and too wet. The carpet under Gregor’s feet seemed to squeak when he moved, the way cheap carpets do when they’ve been saturated. John Jackman had his umbrella tucked under his arm, the way British bankers did in Walt Disney movies.
The hall smelled as if someone had just walked a very hairy and very wet dog through it. Gregor got to Julianne Corbett’s door and went in without knocking. Tiffany Shattuck sat at her desk, reading another bridal magazine, chewing gum. Gregor was willing to bet anything that Tiffany did not chew gum when Julianne Corbett could see her.
John Jackman came into the office waiting room and closed the door behind him. Gregor cleared his throat. Tiffany Shattuck looked up and dropped the magazine.
“Oh,” she said, pushing the gum around in her mouth and trying to pretend it wasn’t there. “Mr. Demarkian. Ms. Corbett said you were coming.”
“I believe we have some kind of an appointment,” Gregor said politely.
Tiffany turned her back to them and made heaving motions that indicated she was getting rid of the gum. Her bridal magazine was open on the desk, to an article on the perfect champagne toast. Did people really read articles like that? Gregor wondered. He supposed they must. The magazines were everywhere. They seemed to be successful. Tiffany turned back to them and smiled, her gum gone.
“I’ll go right in and tell her you’re here,” she said.
Tiffany could have announced them on the intercom. Gregor didn’t say so. Instead, he pointed to the bridal magazine.
“Are you getting married?” he asked.
Tiffany looked confused. “You mean now? Am I getting married now? I mean, I’m not engaged to anybody at the moment or anything, but I hope to be someday. If I meet somebody. If you know what I mean.”
“Of course,” Gregor said.
Tiffany looked down at the bridal magazine. “I just like these magazines,” she said. “They’re always beautiful. And there’s never anything in them to get you upset. If you know what I mean.”
“No,” Gregor said.
“Well,” Tiffany said seriously. “You know. About poverty. And violence. That kind of thing. And AIDS. Even the fashion magazines talk about poverty and violence and AIDS these days. But the bridal magazines don’t.”
“Oh,” Gregor said.
“I’ll just go get Ms. Corbett,” Tiffany said. “I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to be kept waiting. She told me to tell her as soon as you got in. She’s very concerned about what’s happening to Ms. Parrish.”
Tiffany Shattuck hurried off. Gregor began to pace back and forth across the waiting room. There were posters on the walls now that hadn’t been there a couple of days earlier. Somebody, probably Tiffany Shattuck, was making an effort to make this place look permanent.
“What was all that talk about the bridal magazines?” John Jackman asked. “Don’t tell me your Patsy MacLaren is getting married again.”
“No, of course not,” Gregor said. “It wasn’t anything. Donna Moradanyan is getting married. Marriage is on my mind these days.”
“I think if you told me that Patsy MacLaren was off someplace getting married right this minute, I’d go out and shoot myself,” John Jackman said. “I like it better when I know what you’re up to.”
Tiffany Shattuck came back through the inner door and walked up to the open reception window, smiling.
“Ms. Corbett says you’re to come right in,” she told them. “She’s all ready for you. Just step around that statue thing that’s in the way. I haven’t had a chance to move it yet.”
The “statue thing” was a plaster copy of Justice, blind and with scales, almost half as tall as Gregor was. Gregor wondered where it was supposed to go. He also wondered who was supposed to move it. Tiffany didn’t look strong enough. John Jackman stuck out a toe and kicked the thing, as if it were personally responsible for the mess the current criminal justice system was in.
Julianne Corbett was seated behind her big desk, papers spread out on the green felt blotter, pens and pencils strewn across the polished wood surface. When she saw them come in, she smiled, stood, and held out her hand.
“Mr. Demarkian,” she said. “Mr. Jackman. Come and sit down.”
“I’ll get some coffee,” Tiffany Shattuck said, dashing out again.
Julianne Corbett retracted her hand and reclaimed her seat. Gregor sat down in the larger of the two armchairs that faced the desk. John Jackman remained standing, looking uncertain of what he was supposed to do next.
“Well,” Julianne Corbett said, trying on a great big smile again. “I hope you’re bringing me good news. I hope Karla’s condition is at least somewhat improved.”
“Actually,” Gregor Demarkian said, “I came to tell you that I finally know where Patsy MacLaren is.”
“I know where Patsy MacLaren is,” Julianne Corbett said, “because I put her there. She’s in a grave in New Delhi.”
“Yes, I know she is,” Gregor said gently. “But just a week or so ago she killed her husband, and a little time after that she killed a harmless woman who cared too much about animals, and a little after that she killed an ICU specialist nurse named Liza Verity. For somebody who’s buried in New Delhi, she’s been very active.”
Julianne Corbett’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t know she killed Liza Verity. You don’t know she set the pipe bomb off at my reception. You’re just guessing because what happened did involve pipe bombs. Any number of people could know how to make a pipe bomb.”
“That’s true,” Gregor said. “Any number of people do. What’s more important, however, is that I know who was married to Stephen Willis.”
“You mean the woman who was calling herself Patsy MacLaren,” Julianne Corbett said. “That’s not the same thing. Unless she really was called Patsy MacLaren but she wasn’t the same Patsy MacLaren. My Patsy MacLaren is dead and buried and has been for longer than I care to remember.”
“I know who was married to Stephen Willis,” Gregor Demarkian repeated. “Do you want to know who that was?”
“All right,” Julianne Corbett said. “Who was it?”
“You.”