Charlie Huston - Already Dead

She blushes just slightly.

– Oh, yes, you still don't know my name.

– Nope.

She starts to sit and releases a very genuine and slightly embarrassed laugh.

– Sorry, I'm Marilee Ann Horde.

My jaw clenches. Marilee Ann Horde. Thank you very fucking much Dexter fucking Predo. She watches me standing there.

– Perhaps you'd like to sit and have a drink.

I sit.

– You must tell me, Joseph.

– Yeah?

– Whatever happened to your face?

The conversation on the phone was brief. She told me she was uncomfortable speaking in detail over the open line and asked if we could meet. I said sure, but it would have to be that evening. She suggested six and I countered with nine-thirty. She said the Cole and I said sure.

On the way up to 55th I made a plan for myself. Get the woman's story and lay off whatever errand she needs run until next week. Get the hell back downtown, go to the school and pick up where I left off last night before I got waylaid. See if I can pick up that musky sex scent the girl zombie had and find it anywhere else in the building or the streets nearby. That's not a dime-a-dozen scent. And all the while keep my eyes peeled for whoever the Coalition has creeping around. And if all else fails pick up Philip again. Nice plan, should have got me somewhere. Then I found out I was meeting with Marilee Ann Horde.

She's drinking ridiculously expensive designer vodka on the rocks. I accept a glass of the same.

– You come highly recommended, Joseph.

– I get the job done. But I'm surprised Mr. Predo would recommend me to you.

She smiles just a bit.

– And yet.

– Uh-huh. Look, Ms. Horde.

– Marilee.

– This isn't really my kind of job.

– What kind of job is that?

– The kind that takes place in your neck of the woods.

– And what is my neck of the woods, Joseph?

I look at her sitting there. Coy and quiet, a stylish thirty-three-year-old beauty. She's wearing a tailored summer suit in a subtle rose shade and a crisp linen blouse, her only jewelry the engagement ring and wedding band on her left hand. The stone in the engagement ring not the usual Upper East Side two-carat-plus rock, but a tastefully sized blue-while in a deco platinum setting. Her hair appears to be naturally golden, and she has its length twirled up and pinned neatly to the back of her head, just three perfect strands dangling to frame her face and accent her ivory neck. Her ivory neck. I take a large swallow from my drink and lean back in my chair.

– Have you taken a look in the mirror lately, Ms. Horde?

– I said you should call me Marilee.

– Yes you did. Have you taken a look in the mirror lately, Ms. Horde?

– Yes.

– What would you say is your neck of the woods?

I look down at myself, the old suit, rumpled shirt and scuffed shoes that I dug up for the occasion.

– And what would you say was mine? And would you say, based on this, that I am the man for your kind of job?

She puts her drink down on the table.

– Actually, I would say this is exactly why you are the man for my job, Joseph. You see, my daughter has run away again, and I believe she is to be found in your neck of the woods.

She leans in, close to me.

– As you put it.

The cocktail waitress comes by and Marilee orders us another round.

This is taking too long. I figured blackmail. I figured drugs. I figured this woman would have some nasty little problem that needed to be swept up. I never figured missing children. I never figured Marilee Ann Horde.

The Hordes are one of New York's original families, one of the few dozen that make up Manhattan's true society. Their money came from the usual sources, oil, timber, and rail, but these days they're better known for their biotechnology holdings and HCN, the Horde Cable Network. Marilee Ann Dempsey's family was more than a few steps down the food chain, quite a bit more I gather. But she apparently made up for it with style enough to draw the attention of Dr. Dale Edward Horde, the only son and heir to the house of Horde, as well as founder and CEO/Chairman of Horde Bio Tech Inc. They've been married for fourteen or fifteen years and are one of those Manhattan couples who get plenty of publicity, but all skillfully crafted and honed. No Page Six blurbs for the Hordes. What it all means for me is that I can't shine this on. I have to find the damn kid, which means I have to sit here and listen to the whole story instead of being out looking for the carrier. So our second round shows up and I try not to be too fidgety while I listen to her.

She's leaning back now, holding her drink in her lap with her right hand, occasionally stirring the ice with her index finger.

– Amanda has done this before. As a small child, she's only fourteen now, but as a very small child she frequently hid in closets or in the garden until someone found her. A way of getting attention. Not that she lacked, but she enjoyed scaring us. She would do it in public places as well, museums, stores; just disappear. At first we would panic and search high and low. When we realized it was a game to her, we resolved to wait her out, wait for her to get bored or lonely and come out of hiding. But she didn't. I once spent an entire day in Bergdorf's wail ing lor her to come out, and she never did. She stayed hidden inside a rack of dresses until we found her just after the store had closed. But she never ran far, Joseph, just somewhere hidden so she could watch us look for her. Then last summer she ran away for real. Not all that far as it turned out, but farther than before. When we first noticed her missing we were a bit surprised, my husband and I. It had been some time since she had last played her little game. But then we realized she was truly missing. We searched the town house, we had our Hamptons house searched, as well as the Hudson River estate. After two days there was no sign. We thought she might have been kidnapped. We called the police, but no one got in touch with us about a ransom and, frankly, the police were little help. Eventually, after some days, we hired a private investigator my husband has had occasion to employ. He found her almost two weeks later. She was living in the East Village, camping the kids call it. They go down there in their worst clothes and live on the street and panhandle and sleep in the park and pretend to be homeless. I guess.

I nodded. It was true, there were more than a few well-off kids slumming on Avenue A in the summer. When the real squatters found them out they usually kicked the shit out of them and sent them home to mommy and daddy.

Marilee takes a sip and plays with her ice some more.

I make a little grunting noise and she looks up.

– Yes?

– No offense, but you seem pretty calm about your daughter being missing and all.

She nods.

– Well as I say, it's not exactly new to us, and it's only been a few days. But more to the point, we know she's OK.

– How's that?

– She's been withdrawing money from her account.

– That could be anyone with her card and code.

– Yes, she used her card at first, but her last two withdrawals were in person from a teller. It was her. They require photo ID.

– When and where was the last withdrawal?

– The Chase at Broadway and Eighth, two days ago.

– How much?

– Two hundred.

– How much does she have access to?

– She can withdraw up to a thousand a week, but never more than two hundred a day. If she wants more she needs her father or me to cosign.

– And she's taken two hundred every day she's been gone?

– Yes. First with her card, and the last two, as I said, from a teller. Perhaps she lost the card.