#

  Vash had walked to the theater, and he waited impatiently in the cold for Sunny, who finally arrived in a black town car. There was no valet, so as soon as Sunny, in a smashing red dress, stepped out, the car sped away.

  "And whose car was that?"

  "Uber," Sunny said.

  "You couldn't have walked?"

  "Not in these heels. You look good, Vash."

  "Thank you. We should socialize more often." He offered his elbow.

  She took it. "We probably shouldn't."

  "What do you do for fun?" he asked.

  "I'm always working."

  He considered. "That might be my fault. I barely work at all."

  She smirked. "That's why we make a good team."

  The theater was small and old. They pushed past tourists and socialites and dark wood paneling to the bar, where Sunny got a Sprite and Vash got a double vodka cranberry on the rocks.

  She looked askance at him.

  "What? I like sweet things." He winked.

  She strode off toward their seats, and they were soon crammed together, knees touching the seats in front of them.

  "How much did we pay for these tickets?" she asked.

  "To be fair, we're practically Off-Broadway."

  "This is a multi-billion-dollar industry," she pointed out.

  "That's selling old-world charm. Come now. You should have gotten vodka."

  "You're probably right."

  She stood up and surveyed the crowd, noting exits, noting people with cameras, one with a video camera, two GoPros, numerous cell phones. Four people with guns that she could pick out. Multiple exits.

  "Think something's going to happen, spook?" Vash asked.

  "Just looking." She paused. "No, I don't think anything's going to happen."

  "Maybe Costis was just the first. The Murderer at the Old-As-Fuck Theater!"

  She sat back down and elbowed him.

  The lights dimmed. There was no one next to her right side, so she could stretch her leg out, gun carefully strapped to her calf.

  The show was incomprehensible. The costuming was from the 1920s, flappers and skirts and caps.

  "This is in English, right?" she whispered to Vash.

  "Come on, Sun. The plot is basically Phantom of the Opera."

  "I never saw that, either."

  "What do you do for fun again?"

  "I saw Cats?"

  "How the fuck does someone like you get mixed up with a dancer?"

  Someone behind them shushed them, and they both focused on the stage again.

  Sunny folded her arms. The dancing, too, didn't make sense. It was more fighting—stage battles and women in great emotional duress. She found the dancers anonymous. Couldn't track them from one costume to another. How had Pamela stood out? Divine light?

  Intermission came. Vash went back for another drink. Sunny examined the orchestra pit.

  "What are you doing here?" the trumpeter asked her.

  She squinted. Rolo? What was he doing here? With a trumpet? "I could ask the same thing about you."

  "No, you couldn't."

  He must be on a case. She knew better than to ask that. "Well, it was good seeing you."

  She went back to her chair. Her phone vibrated. A text from Rolo. "We're here for Derek Little. Stay the fuck away."

  "We're just here to see the play," she typed back.

  "Good."

  Vash sat down. "The line to the women's bathroom is epic."

  She gave him a hard stare.

  "What?"

  "You know... the thing you think I am?"

  "Dyke?"

  "No, the other thing."

  "Yeah?" He looked wary.

  "There's another one. Here."

  He glanced around. "Why?"

  "Derek Little."

  "What? Shit, shit, shit. What's he working on?" Vash asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Is he going to make Little disappear?"

  "Probably."

  Vash rolled his head back onto his chair. "Man, I hate this."

  Sunny didn't say anything, just leaned forward, brooding. To get to Derek before Rolo was to commit treason. She definitely didn't love Pamela enough to commit treason.

  Love.

  "I don't know what to do," she said to Vash.

  He put his drink in her hand. "You need a good detective. Is that the guy?"

  Rolo stood up from the pit, glaring at them.

  "Yeah."

  "He's a goddamn trumpet player. Aren't you glad you're not that?"

  "I've been weirder than a trumpeter. What am I, Vash?"

  "The one who's going to get the girl."

  Sunny gave Rolo the finger as the lights flickered on and off.

  He gestured at his crotch, and then turned to sit back down.

  "Manly," Vash commented.

  "You wouldn't believe how competitive it is on the Farm."

  "I am singularly blessed to have no fucking idea."

  #

  At intermission, Derek disappeared.

  The show was thrown into chaos, and the second act went on with half-finished costume changes, mis-cued music, and dropped lines.

  Sunny stormed backstage at curtain call. Vash went around to watch the front. They didn't have the man power to watch the stage door or the other exits.

  Derek was well and truly gone. His assistant, presumably, shouted orders into a headset. Maybe curtain call would go off without a hitch.

  Or a trumpeter.

  "Vash," she texted. "See if they have security cameras."

  The response came too fast. "They don't. I checked."

  "Of all the places in New York..." she muttered.

  She passed the stars' dressing rooms. Angela's greeted her with a whiff of strawberries. Then to the dancer's hall, past clothing racks and jewelry and pantyhose and feminine and masculine musks that made her wince.

  The room was mostly empty, with dancers still on stage, but she asked a young man playing on his phone, "Where did Pamela sit?"

  He didn't answer. She tapped him on the shoulder, hard, and he scowled at her. "What, bitch?"

  "Where did Pamela sit?"

  "Over there," he gestured vaguely.

  She grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. "Over where. Show me."

  "Sure, God, whatever, but she's gone. They cleaned out her stuff, most of it."

  "Who did?" she asked.

  "Derek." He pointed to a makeup counter. "Here, okay? She shared with Brie. Maybe Brie left some stuff. Now leave me alone, Narco."

  "Did you know about Pamela's addiction?"

  "We don't talk about that stuff. But yeah, everybody knew. She never shared. And hell, she had it together better than most of us. Never went to the orgies, anyway."

  "Were you tight?"

  "No, bruh, we weren't 'tight.' I'm backup. I've only been here a few weeks."

  "Thanks for the information."

  "Yeah."

  "Now leave me alone," she said.

  He snarled and went back to his own seat.

  Dancers and actors and costumers and assistants swarmed in all at once, a tidal wave of noise and bodies. Sunny held onto the counter and waited, and when everything settled, she stared at herself in Pamela's mirror.

  "Hey," Brie said. "What are you doing here?"

  "Looking for clues."

  "What the hell are you going to find here? Can't you, uh, GPS her phone?"

  "This isn't the movies."

  "Whatever." Brie sounded sad. "I've looked through this stuff a thousand times. There's no treasure map."

  Sunny didn't want to explain it, but it was weird, seeing Pamela's stuff. Knowing the woman she hadn't known. Trinkets and a photo of her in costume, waving, with a little kid beside her. Used cold cream. She tried to picture Pamela here and found she couldn't really remember Pamela's face.

  "Do you have a recent picture of Pamela? On your phone?"

  "Yeah. I can send it to you. You going to put out a BOLO?"

  "Not exactly."

  Brie sent her the picture, a selfie of Pamela smiling brightly into the camera, her eyes clear, her teeth perfect.

  Chapter Five

  "How long have I been here?" Pamela asked.

  Her head was in her hands. She was exhausted, despite having nothing to do but sleep. Tired from puking, strained from withdrawal, she was sure she looked a mess. Her hair felt oily under her fingers. Her eyes were puffy. She didn't look at him, afraid he wouldn't answer.

  "Two days," Julian said.

  She licked her lips then let her mouth stay open, feeling them dry again. "Can you be more specific?"

  "Not really. I didn't bring you in. I saw you yesterday afternoon, and now today, this morning."

  At least he was more talkative.

  She risked a glance up at him. "Am I still in New York?"

  He met her gaze but was silent.

  "Have you found Derek?" she asked.

  "That's not your concern. Do you think he'll vouch for you?"

  "Vouch for me for what? I haven't done anything!"

  Residual anger boiled up inside her. She tried to push it down. She was out of control enough already. She didn't want to be rendered a powerless inmate altogether.

  He stayed silent. He had a file in front of him.

  She closed her eyes and thought of the list of questions she'd prepared for next they'd meet. She was actually relieved to see him. Glad to see she still mattered to someone. Did anyone notice she was gone?

  That was the question she was too terrified to ask.

  "How long have you been watching me?" she asked.

  "About a week."

  She licked her lips again.

  "Are you thirsty?"

  "Kind of, yeah."

  He gestured out the door. So there were others there, maybe listening just outside. Others that cared about what she had to say. She remained silent until someone brought in a Diet Coke with a straw. She sipped at it.

  "I'll make sure you have a regular source of water. Besides your sink, that is." Julien gave a faint smile.

  As if she were a dog.

  She nodded. "Thanks."

  "So where do you get the Mexican Mud?"

  "I told you. From Derek. And no one calls it that."

  "What do they call it?"

  "Just... eye drops. Hey, man, do you have any drops on you."

  "How much do you pay?"

  "How much do I pay?" She lifted her head now and looked at him square on. "You could ask these stupid questions without going all black ops on me. In a jail or in my apartment."

  "Your apartment. The one you share with Brie and Troy?"

  She pursed her lips.

  "Not going to talk about them, I see."

  "You can torture me all you want. I'm not going to rat out my friends."

  "I'll change the subject," Julien said. "We certainly aren't going to torture you."

  She had the thought, though, that Brie might be in a room just like this. Or Derek—he deserved it, the douche—if anyone deserved it. But not Brie. Or Troy.

  Or Sunny. They'd been watching her for a week... Had it been a coincidence? Had Sunny interrogated her? Looked for her stash? She tried to remember.

  Sunny was fading. Grief welled up in her place.

  "You've been watching me for a week?"

  "Yes. To get coffee, to dance, to the gym, to that audition for the commercial."

  "I'm still waiting for a callback. Are you tapping my phone?"

  "Oh, sure. We'll let you know as soon as they call and offer you the job." Julien smirked.

  "Prick."

  "Okay, that's fair. I shouldn't have said that. What are you really asking, Pamela? What kind of information do you want?"

  "Isn't that your question?"

  "Hopefully we can meet in the middle."

  She knew what she wanted to ask, but she wasn't sure how important it was to Julien. Was it everything? Did he see her with Sunny and then decide to snatch her off the street? Or was he just a sex pervert?

  "It's kind of embarrassing," she said.

  "Ah." He opened the file. "At 12:48 A.M., suspect entered town car, license plate redacted. Suspect emerged with unknown woman at 1:15 at Artaz Hotel. Unknown woman emerged from hotel at 7:20 A.M., suspect emerged at 1:35."

  "Unknown woman?" She asked blithely.

  She was a dancer, not an actor. Would Angela be handling this better? She tried to be Angela.

  Julien smiled. "Later identified as Sun R. Kim, living in Queens, an investment banker."

  Pamela blinked. Sunny wasn't even Korean.

  Was she?

  Pamela squinted.

  "I see that I know more about her than you do," Julien chided.

  "You probably know more about me than I do, but yeah," she said. "Just one night."

  "I understand."

  But he didn't understand.

  And she didn't understand. Was Sun R. Kim her real name? Was the badge a lie? Was she trying to be sexy? Who pretended to be a cop if they weren't?

  Who would convince the NSA or whoever they weren't a cop but an investment banker? She was at least sure that Julien wasn't a gangster. No one had hit her. She knew gangsters. The memory of a big Greek with fish tattoos tickled her mind.

  "Probably the last fun I'll ever have," she drawled, "unless you give me back my eye drops."

  She wanted to get out of there. Go back to her room, her cell, to think. To pick apart Sunny's life and her own. What had gone wrong?

  "What made you snatch me when you did?" she asked her thoughts out loud.

  "We couldn't risk you out there anymore. You might surprise our... big fish, as we say."

  "I don't know any big fish."

  "You just think you don't."

  "Well, why don't you get to the point and ask me?"

  "I already have," he said.

  That scared her.

  "What the fuck did I do a week ago?" she asked.

  Julien smiled. "Why don't you think about that for a while, and come to me when you know."

  "This isn't a regularly scheduled thing?"

  "I'm not your Facebook friend. You'll have to offer me something."

  "I don't even know what you want!"

  This time it was hysteria rising, not anger. She swallowed. It didn't help. Her heart was thudding. "Let me help you," she said and hated herself for it. Too many indignities, too many nights on her knees just for a job, a place to sleep. She was ashamed, and she was sure her burning face showed it.

  "You will," he said. He gestured toward the door.

  The woman came in.

  "Wait. Can I have some books? Magazines? Something?" Pamela asked.

  "When you give me what I want, you can have everything."

  "My life back?"

  "If that's what you want," he said.

  She didn't know what the hell that was supposed to mean. But she was going to spend the next portion of her life trying to figure it out. Maybe she had witnessed a murder. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity.

  "I'm not who you think I am," she tried.

  "We'll see," Julien said.

  #

  It was a dream.

  They were in her parent's house, which Sunny thought was weird. She couldn't remember showing Pamela where she lived. She didn't remember if her parents were still alive. But there they were, in bright sunshine that poured through the windows, and there was a cat that looked like a dog—or a dog that looked like a cat?—and Pamela was nuzzling her neck, and it felt perfect.

  They stood together, looking through the bright window at the dirty river below. Sunny held Pamela tight.

  The view shifted, and they were on the street outside a different theater. In a different town.

  New York?

  No, Pittsburgh. Pamela was laughing, playing with Sunny's hair but otherwise just out of reach. Sunny moved closer.

  Pamela swatted her. "Not here."

  "Why not here?"

  "They're watching."

  "Who's watching?"

  Sunny looked around, and there were eyes everywhere, peering at her out of the darkness. When had night fallen?

  "Pamela?" Sunny spun around again. There was Pamela's retreating form at the end of the street. Sunny ran toward her.

  The eyes were moving faster. Blackness closed around them.

  Sunny awoke, blinking at the dark ceiling. She took deep breaths. Her hands were clenched around her sheets. She relaxed them, one finger at a time.

  Her phone rang. The distinctive ring of her real job. She found it under her pillow and read the screen. An address and a time showed. She closed her eyes.

  Real life was beckoning.

  She could still feel Pamela. He arms ached. She hugged her pillow and closed her eyes.

  #

  "You didn't show up for work yesterday," Vash said.

  "Did I miss anything?" Pamela asked.

  "Six interviews, three hours of paperwork, one arrest, four robberies, and one dead body."

  "So, nothing, then."

  Vash grinned, but she could tell he was angry by his eyes.

  "I was working," she said, to mollify him.

  "On the Pamela thing?"

  "No."

  "So are we over that now? Just a passing fancy?" Vash asked.

  Sunny dropped into an office chair beside him. "No, Vash. I had to work. Do you have something new?"

  "Why should I care more than you do?"

  "Vash, look at me." She met his gaze.

  He studied her like he would a suspect, from head to toe. "You look like shit."

  "Yeah."

  "Okay, fine. I have bad news."

  She swallowed.

  "Look, if Pamela Costis was dead, I would have called you. Or shown up at your house or something. Where do you live?"

  "Queens."

  "Really? Queens?"

  "Where do you live, dipshit?"

  "Jersey City. But you knew that anyway," Vash said. "It's the other guy. The one who slipped from our grasp two days ago."

  "Derek."

  "Yeah."

  "Did they find him?"

  "Boy, did they. It made the papers."

  "Fuck."

  Vash pushed forward what turned out to be a printout from BroadwayPlanet1.com. "Stage Manager of Lodoïska Commits Suicide at Intermission." She shook her head. "Well, that's dramatic. Did he hang himself from the rafters?"

  "Gunshot. In a bathroom across the street."

 

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