The street in the Village looks much the same as it did when Lydia visited before, yet this time she feels like she’s in a game where everything’s been designed to have a specific effect on her, so she’s seeing it all differently. In fact no, it feels more artificial than that—it’s like she’s on a stage, like when she saw Hedda Gabler with Fitz, and if she turns around she’ll see the audience watching for what she does next. The diplomatic car has parked around the corner from Ondine’s apartment: Madison gets out and tells Lydia to lead the way.
Neither she nor Madison even discussed contacting the NYPD. This was something they would investigate themselves, immediately, before the trail went cold. They couldn’t bring Hari with them or leave him alone at the residence: Lydia was about to swish him some money for a hotel when Madison surprised her by swishing him money first, and telling Lydia to take his contact details in case they needed him again. Minutes later Lydia and Madison were being driven downtown.
They walk through the shoe vendor and head up to Ondine’s floor. Is it just Lydia’s imagination or are there fewer people lurking in the stairwell than last time? There’re two in that corner there, but she can’t see any others. They arrive at Ondine’s door and Lydia rings the bell.
The door is opened by a stout man of about forty, wearing a green shirt with only two of the buttons done up and loose gray trousers. He holds a cutting tool and there’s an acrid smell of scorched printstuff coming from the apartment. From what Lydia can see, the apartment is unchanged from her previous visit except for the person in it. The man sees Lydia first, then Madison, and the sight of the Logi causes him to do a double take. “Can I help you?” he says, clearly unsure whether to direct the question at Lydia or Madison.
“Who are you?”
The man recoils slightly. “Who are you?”
What’s he saying? Madison asks.
He’s asking us who we are.
Why don’t you tell him?
I was about to. This is all much easier when she’s just translating rather than trying to lead the conversation. “My name’s Lydia and this is Madison. You live here?”
He nods. “Kyle.” He swaps his sculpting tool into his left hand, then shakes Lydia’s hand. His own hand is rough and calloused.
“I was here a couple of days ago—”
“I wasn’t here then.”
“Yes, I know. I’m—we’re looking for Ondine?”
He looks blank. “How d’you spell that?”
Lydia spells it for him.
He shakes his head. “Sorry, don’t know anyone of that name.”
“Whether you know her or not, she was here.”
Kyle’s brow creases in annoyance. “Was there a party going on? Because the rental agreement says—”
“No, it was just her on her own—she said she lived here.”
“There was a woman staying here,” says Kyle, “but that wasn’t her name.”
“OK, what was her name?”
“I don’t give out details about my guests—what’s this about?”
“I’m trying to find her—it’s very important I speak to her again. You say she was a guest?”
“Yeah, I let this place out sometimes and go stay with my boyfriend for a few days. Means I can take bookings at short notice.”
Lydia peers inside. “This doesn’t look like a holiday let.”
Kyle laughs. “That’s how they like it. Rich kids from Dakota and Seattle go nuts for the Village vibe.”
Lydia relates this to Madison as she gets her scroll from her pocket. While searching for something on the scroll she continues: “And this woman who stayed, she was a short-notice booking?”
“Uh-huh. Booked on Sunday, arrived Monday morning. Open-ended stay, she messaged me today to say she was leaving, gave me a five-star review.”
Lydia holds up her scroll, which has a picture of Ondine on it. “Is this her?”
Kyle nods. “Yeah. But she wasn’t called … Odine, you said?”
“Ondine—that’s what she told me she was called.”
He looks at her sympathetically. “Sometimes people want to be someone else when they come to the city, and they don’t want you finding them afterwards.”
“No, it’s not like that—are you sure she gave you the right name?”
“Oh yeah. You need a verified idee and it’s three-stepped at every stage. But like I say, I can’t give out that info—I’ve already told you more than I should—”
“Don’t worry,” says Lydia, turning away and heading for the stairs, Madison following. “The police might turn up to ask you the same question, though.”
A visit to Todd’s apartment yields a similar result—nobody’s there, and while he could just be out, Lydia speaks to two other people who live on his floor and neither of them recognize the name or the picture. Which means they need to trace the chain back another stage: Prof. Booth.
She was the first one to mention Jene, says Lydia as their car heads uptown. At the time it seemed an unlikely lead, but then …
Then you found evidence of a motive, says Madison. From people who’ve since disappeared.
It’s like they’re trying to cover up Fitz’s murder—but why feed me with all this information? Why not send the police after the wrong suspect instead of getting me to do it?
Because they were able to manipulate you through Fitzwilliam’s voice. It means they keep the police at a remove.
Yeah, but say I’d delivered my evidence to the police … it doesn’t stand up. It hung together the way it was presented to me, but now I look a bit deeper, it’s all falling apart. It’d never stand up in court. Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to? Perhaps it was only meant to deflect attention away from the real killer long enough for the trail to go cold?
Hopefully this woman can give us some answers, Madison says, and Lydia can sense her displeasure at all these complications and loose ends. Assuming there is such a person as Prof. Booth.
There must be. She couldn’t just hire an office at a university for the morning. Even as Lydia says this she realizes it might not be true. Probably if you offered NYNU enough money, they would let you hire an office and list you on their site as a member of staff for as long as you needed.
Lydia and Madison walk into NYNU to find Lydia’s student idee has expired—it was good only for the day she obtained it.
I can sign up for another, she tells Madison, but I’m a bit low on funds right now—
The embassy will cover it, Madison replies. They’re attracting stares from others in the lobby and Madison would probably prefer to get out of here.
Lydia tells the registration terminal she wants to re-enroll. The terminal tells her she’s barred from entry and should leave the premises immediately. She tries again, hoping it’s a case of mistaken identity, but two security guards come over to disabuse her of that notion.
“OK, let’s go,” says one of the guards, pointing a finger from Lydia to Madison and then to the door.
“I need to see Professor Booth,” Lydia tells the guard.
“You’re not permitted on the premises, miss,” the guard replies.
Tell him it’s diplomatic business, says Madison, and Lydia does so.
“That’s irrelevant. Neither of you are permitted on the premises.”
I’m allowed everywhere, Madison retorts. She persists with the argument for a few minutes, threatening to escalate this to the embassy, before the police turn up and arrest them both. Lydia can’t help but notice the cops got here quicker than they did when she called them from the roof of Liberty View.