Claudine Read online

  She gagged and looked away. She felt a pain in her womb—a pang of sympathy. She looked at the other photo—the back shot. Nestled on the underside of the girl’s right wrist was a raised scar in the shape of a nightingale feather.

  CHAPTER 4

  “I’ve never seen her before in my life,” Maria whispered, handing the photos back to Trainor.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  For an instant, his flinty gray eyes took in her curves, then his face became unreadable again. “Okay. Here, take my card. If you can think of anywhere you might have seen this girl, or someone who might have copied your ID, give me a call.”

  “I will. Thank you, Detectives.”

  They shook hands again, and Maria was just about to lock the dead bolt behind them, when she changed her mind and yanked the door back open.

  Trainor and da Silva turned around when they heard the door open and she motioned for them to come back. “Do you have a suspect?”

  Trainor eyed her. “No. Not yet.”

  “He’s still out there, then,” she said, more to herself than to them.

  “Yes, ma’am,” da Silva replied. He blinked like a reptile. “We don’t know if there’s any connection to you besides the ID, but you should be cautious. We’ll be in touch if there are any developments you need to know about.”

  Maria smiled her thanks, closed the door again and sagged against it; her heart flipped around like a bird with a broken wing. She didn’t recognize the girl. That was true enough. But she couldn’t tell Trainor or da Silva about the identical scar; the thought of the police digging into her personal life momentarily paralyzed her. If they discovered her secret, she’d be thrown in prison. She wrapped herself tightly in her robe and called for Lillian. There was no answer.

  She found Lillian huddled in her bedroom, her shoulders heaving with the effort to suppress her sobs. Maria put her arms around her, hugging her like a hurt child. “Lillian dear, it’s okay. I don’t believe for one second you took my ID.”

  “They do.”

  “When they ask questions like that, they’re . . . It’s probably just a kind of test. They’re judging your reactions. They’re likely narrowing things down trying to sift out the truth.”

  “No, Maria. Because I’m Filipina they think I’m an illegal. It’s bullshit and I should be used to it. But that doesn’t matter now. How did the dead girl get your ID? Past the doorman, and into the apartment? This is a safe building. That kind of thing shouldn’t happen here.”

  “I don’t know, Lil.” Only she, Lillian and Andrei had apartment keys. “No place is one hundred percent secure. I’m less worried about how; I want to know why and who.” Maria dried Lillian’s tears with the edge of her robe. “Listen to me. While you were in the bedroom, the police told me the dead girl looked exactly like me. They showed me photos.”

  “Oh my God!” Lillian cried, jumping to her feet. “What does this mean? Do they think you were the intended victim? We’ve got to do something.” She began to pace. The bulldog was back.

  Maria got up. “No. They didn’t say that. I have to phone Andrei.”

  Her stomach churned as she dialed his number. He answered after two rings. She gave him a detailed account of the police interview.

  He listened without saying anything but sounded grim when he did speak. “I’m coming over, Maria. Right now. Don’t open your door for anyone.”

  His order made her bristle. “Absolutely not, Andrei. I’m going to Yale today. I’ve got research to do and it can’t wait. I’ve been too busy with clients lately. I won’t end up being a prisoner in my own home.”

  “For God’s sake, Maria. A girl who looks like you, carrying your ID, was killed. Doesn’t that suggest something to you? I’m coming over.”

  “Fine. And when you get here, I’ll be gone. So do whatever you need to—install security cameras, extra locks, whatever. But I’m not going to wait for you.”

  Andrei was silent for a moment. Maria could hear him breathing heavily and knew how upset he was. When he spoke it was with resignation. “I’ve got some contacts at the NYPD. I’ll keep tabs on the investigation. Give me the detectives’ names again.”

  Maria took a deep breath. “Trainor and da Silva.” While Andrei jotted down the information, Maria promised she’d stay in touch by phone while she was on campus. She clicked off, reassured that she could count on him.

  She washed down the toast and eggs Lillian made with another cup of coffee, then took a shower. Fear the police would discover her after-hours profession rattled her more deeply than her worries over the murdered girl. And though she chastised herself for it, self-preservation won out over empathy. She gave herself a shake and tried to calm down. She’d planned to spend the entire day at Yale and that was exactly what she was going to do. And later, she was meeting her old drama professor, who’d asked her to stop by.

  Ironically, her scholarly ambitions—for it was her goal to become a professor—prompted her life as a courtesan. Like many teenagers, she’d once dreamed of becoming an actor. She possessed the fine bone structure and radiant skin the camera loved. That, and a few good connections, landed her a few small parts in movies. She also worked as an extra and took commercial assignments. But her dream of breaking into serious film roles eventually vanished along with her meager funds. She’d decided to switch majors from theater to literature in her sophomore year. Then she’d happened to pick up a copy of an Anaïs Nin novel. The world of the sexual professional caught her interest. She’d known other girls who’d ventured into the escort trade and made fabulous money at it. Why not her? She found the notion of a woman’s value declining as she grew sexually experienced hopelessly outdated and offensive, and resolved never to buy into the chauvinism that lay behind it.

  The challenge was to find a unique niche in the sex trade. Something to separate herself from the pack. She came up with the role-playing idea and put a one-night limit on any man’s access. It was a complete reversal of the usual practice of high-end escorts who established a stable of regular clients. It proved to be a stroke of genius. Maria understood early on that what was rare and hard to get would always command a higher price. She hired a top New York fashion photographer, sent her portfolio to the largest-circulation men’s magazine and landed the centerfold spot. That sealed the deal. She could barely keep up with the demand even at her inflated prices. Her value was not so much in how she performed, but in the men’s eyes, her celebrity status.

  Few women around the world belonged to this elite group, and she had climbed her way to the top with nothing but her wits and her allure.

  To keep up the appearance of legality, she cloaked her business as an event management enterprise—an added layer of protection for both her and her clients. Maria used the good taste and social graces drummed into her by her adoptive mother to create events around her performances—parties or elaborate dinners—harking back to the famous courtesans who entertained their “guests.” She named herself after Claudine Alexandrine Guérin de Tencin, a sixteenth-century French courtesan famous for her salons. The heroine of Colette’s novels—her favorite French novelist—also inspired her choice. In no time at all, she gained an international reputation.

  Dressed in boot-cut jeans and a faded red T-shirt, Maria wore little makeup and looked no different from the end-of-term students strolling about the lawns. The heat, unusual for late April and so cloying in the city, was mitigated by the shade of the elm and cherry trees on the Connecticut campus. The cooler air carried the heavy perfume of spring flowers filling the beds. She took a deep breath. Here in the small world of the campus she could truly relax. No one to impress, no one to seduce. Because of its massive collection of volumes in all aspects of the arts, she spent most of her time at the Robert B. Haas Family Arts Library. Given the season, she had no problem finding an empty carrel. She took her tablet out of her satchel, set it in front of her and booted up her digital copy of Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman
of Pleasure. Of all the so-called pornographic works, it was her favorite. She loved the carefree, bawdy, comic undertones of the story—little more than a string of explicit, sexually rambunctious episodes. John Cleland had written it out of boredom while incarcerated in debtors’ prison. He bet a friend that he could write a pornographic book without using any common, lewd words, and it became the most banned book in history.

  She took a swig from her water bottle, remembering Lillian’s admonition to keep hydrated, and scrolled through the text to find the section she’d intended to highlight: an account of a gathering at Mrs. Cole’s establishment where Fanny was initiated into group sex.

  Immersed in the book, she didn’t hear the footfalls approaching from behind or see the hand reaching for her shoulder. She jumped at the warm pressure on her skin, and whipped around in her chair.

  Reed Whitman raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “Hey, hey. Take it easy! You didn’t remember, did you?” Her old drama professor flashed a dazzling dimpled smile to show the missed appointment wasn’t a big deal.

  “I’m so sorry, Reed,” she said. “I lost track of time.”

  “Didn’t mean to startle you. You were on another planet.”

  “Yes, catching up on some reading. How’d you know where I was?” She began packing her tablet into her satchel.

  “It wasn’t hard to figure out where to find you, Maria. You’re a creature of habit. It’s after two—have you eaten? How about some lunch?”

  She could feel her empty stomach complaining. “Sounds good.”

  “I’m not up to student fare today, so let’s give that a pass. I thought Jade would be fun. You know it, right—on Chapel Street?”

  “Pretty fancy.”

  “Glad to make it my treat. I’m guessing you’ve been cracking the books pretty strenuously, from the looks of those shadows under your eyes. Consider it a reward for your hard work.”

  Maria didn’t really want to take the time for an extended lunch, but after missing their appointment she didn’t feel like she had a choice. And she knew Reed could well afford it. It was rumored he owned a couple of commercial buildings in Manhattan and a large summer home on the coast somewhere east of New York State. Still, what she had expected would be a quick meeting was turning into something resembling a date. She pushed down her annoyance.

  He took her to an intimate private room on the second floor of the restaurant. Their balcony table overlooked a flagstone patio, shaded by an enormous aged tree. Ivy had grown around its trunk to such an extent that the bark was no longer visible.

  “I’d forgotten how fabulous it was here,” she said as they took their seats.

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” Reed said, taking the credit. He reached over and squeezed her hand. “The food’s incredible here. They have a top-notch chef.”

  Maria eyed his hand upon hers. An adjunct professor who taught a few drama classes, Reed had been one of her favorite teachers; his charisma and wit made students flock to his lectures. He was wealthy aside from any teaching income and also owned an off-Broadway theater. And when you were a bit groggy and hungover from a long night at the clubs or hitting the books, seeing his handsome face at the front of the lecture hall didn’t hurt. He had a well-defined Roman nose over sensual lips, an olive complexion, heavy brows and well-cut salt-and-pepper hair. Late forties, she guessed. No wedding ring. He fit her client profile to a tee.

  Their drinks arrived. Perrier and ice with a twist for her and chilled Chablis for him.

  “As I said in my message, I think your work shows great promise, and I wanted to see you to offer my help. Is there anything you’d like me to assist with? If so, fire away.”

  She withdrew her hand, the warmth of his touch still on her fingers. “I’ve written an outline and the first few chapters of my thesis—but that’s all. Would you consider looking at it? I’d love your opinion on whether or not I’m on the right track. My supervisor is great on feedback. Still, it’s always useful to have another pair of eyes.”

  “Sure. Tell me more about it. Erotic literature—what’s your approach?”

  “It’s titled Forbidden Texts: Eighteenth-Century Erotic Narratives.”

  “Hmmm. Pretty big range there, everything from Fanny Hill to Justine.”

  Whenever she told someone her thesis topic, they responded predictably with a smartass comeback. She appreciated Reed taking the subject seriously and warmed to her topic.

  “That’s right. I’m comparing Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure with de Sade’s The Misfortunes of Virtue and Richardson’s Pamela: Or, Virtue Rewarded .”

  “No Henry Fielding?”

  “Fielding differs too much from the others.”

  “Still—quite a range. But here’s to virtue, an antiquated notion these days—present company excepted.” He grinned devilishly and they clinked glasses.

  She considered, naughtily, of toasting to vice as well, but thought better of it, not wanting to give Reed the wrong idea. “Actually, I find de Sade excruciating to read. The brutal boarding school scene he described is horrific. I suggested dropping him from my thesis. I don’t think his work is genuinely erotic. More of a torture manifesto.”

  “What did your supervisor say?”

  “She said no. To keep it in. That the three books have parallels even though they seem so different on the surface. They’re all firsthand confessions from women who started out as innocents and became entangled in a life of vice. Women oppressed by sadistic males.”

  Reed crossed his legs. He wore chinos, which she would have dismissed as nerdy but on him they looked good, displaying sinewy thigh muscles. She bet he played squash.

  “I agree with your advisor. You can’t ignore de Sade just because he offends you. You have to challenge those notions of propriety head-on in your thesis—otherwise, what’s the point? I’m very interested in hearing your take on the ingénue. The simple country girl who is forced by circumstances into a life of sin. Quaint notion these days when college kids tweet their favorite sexual positions and upload twerking videos. They could teach us forty-somethings a few things, no doubt.” He cocked his eye. “I was referring to myself, of course. You can’t be much over twenty.”

  She didn’t take the bait. “You think innocent young women caught in a vice trap is a thing of the past? No way.”

  “Well, maybe if you’re talking about girls hooked on crack or something.”

  “I don’t think so. Massage parlors are full of them. Women from Eastern Europe, Asia—country girls promised jobs as nannies—come to the States and are screwed remorselessly by their traffickers to get them ready for the men they’ll service. When they finally end up in the bordello or massage parlor, or wherever, they don’t even try to escape. By then they’re too psychologically damaged.”

  Reed colored slightly. “Of course. Didn’t think of that.”

  Maria wondered if she’d sounded too shrill. She hadn’t meant to pontificate. Fortunately the waiter arrived with their order, giving her the space to switch tracks.

  Reed had suggested an assortment of appetizers to share and they ended up ordering one of each from the menu. The waiter deposited the small plates in the center of the table, each dish garnished so artfully it almost seemed a shame to spoil them. Maria helped herself to hummus on toasted pita and popped it into her mouth. Other dishes held fat popcorn shrimp, steak tartare perfectly spiced and something called Flammkuchen, an Alsatian thin-crust pizza with bacon, onion and sour cream.

  “This is delicious,” she said between bites. “I was really hungry.”

  Reed swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Very reliable here, no? Let’s come back for dinner—tomorrow night. I’d love to see you again.” He lolled back in his chair, and leveled her with his eyes. “In fact, I insist.”

  She set her water glass down on the white tablecloth, so crisp it seemed to actually gleam, and wished now she’d ordered something stronger to drink. No question, the th
ought of spending time with him was appealing. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt her scholastic goals. But right now her after-hours work trumped everything else. “That’s a nice thought, Reed. Thank you. The problem is I have a really tight schedule these days. I’m rushing hard to get more work done now because I’m going to be away a lot over the rest of the spring and summer. How about I take a rain check for the fall when school’s back in session?”

  Reed couldn’t hide his look of irritation but he covered it up quickly. “Much sooner than that, I hope. I’m not letting you off the hook so easily.” He pushed his plate away, then dangled the lure: “You’re not teaching yet are you? Do you take any tutorials?”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t have time. I bulked up on courses last winter so I could get through faster.” Even to her it sounded like an awkward lie. Her other profession barely left time to write. “I hope to start teaching next year.”

  “You should reconsider. Taking on a tutorial or two is essential if you eventually want an academic post.” He took her hand. “I’m happy to organize something. I’m on pretty good terms with the administration, you know.”

  That was an understatement. He was a prized staff member. But the implication was unmistakable. Play nice and you’ll move up. She had a feeling he’d find a way to do it without breaching any of Yale’s strict guidelines.

  On the other hand, Reed was a perfect choice for a mentor: distinguished, influential. Even though she got on well with her supervisor, another point of view would only enrich her work. It would be foolish to decline his offer. She gave him a slow smile that she knew had a distracting effect. “I’d love your help, Reed. Thank you.”