Chapter Five Holly
Chapter Five
HOLLY
True to his word, the car arrives within five minutes, the uniformed driver looking distinctly uneasy to be in the neighborhood. It’s a limousine, an actual limousine. Another first.
When the driver sees me in my fishnet leggings and lacy skull dress, with a studded backpack over my shoulder, he does an actual double-take.
‘It’s all right,’ I tell him, climbing in, tucking blue hair behind my ears. ‘I only drink blood at night.’
To my relief, he laughs, gliding away from the dingy backstreets and overflowing dumpsters.
I take in my surroundings, wondering if my day can get any weirder. The strange remains of the dead bridesmaid keep inserting themselves into my thoughts, macabre and disturbing. What kind of person could have done that?
I focus on my surroundings, letting myself sink into the soft leather seat.
It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside a real-life limo.
The interior is orange-blossom-scented, serene, and bathed in low ambient light.
The rich wood door paneling has a complicated-looking array of buttons. I eye them suspiciously.
‘First time in a limo?’ The driver’s voice comes crystal clear. I track its direction from a small speaker just above my head, and try not to feel unnerved that he can see me back here, but I can’t see him.
‘First time in a chauffeured car of any kind,’ I admit. ‘Rich person etiquette is a mystery to me.’
He nods. ‘When I moved to New York, I thought I spoke perfect English,’ he says. ‘It took driving limos to teach me there’s more to language than just words.’
We pass a soaring billboard with an advertisement for Kensington’s New York Club, all red carpet and low lighting, with flashes of designer liquor bottles.
‘Guess that’s the thing about wealth,’ I say. ‘It’s as much about the story as it is about the reality.’
He considers this. ‘Well, you know what they say about truth, right? There’s yours, and there’s mine.’
‘I’m a forensic scientist,’ I tell him. ‘There’s only one way to present the truth.’
We pass by parks and wider streets of Queens, then into deep shade as the car swings under the elevated 7 line – a steel framework of interlacing metal beams, forming a soaring train track over the water to Manhattan.
On the road, delivery drivers are making early morning drops.
People are hustling to work. Already the city is waking up.
The driver clicks his tongue. ‘Traffic,’ he mutters, spinning the car down a side street I never knew existed. ‘I’ll take the lower bridge route.’
We break out of the oppressive underside of the train track, with its miles of peeling green paint, and glide up onto the elegant spine of Williamsburg Bridge.
A sudden flash of deep-blue sky and elevation over the East River makes it feel as though we’re flying.
In the middle distance, the iconic skyline of Manhattan never fails to make my heart lift.
The glass skyscrapers flash blinding slices of early morning sun, and the Empire State Building and Chrysler Building, with their signature pointed tops, pierce the clouds.
As we descend onto the Lower East Side, the density of people on the street has quadrupled that on the far side of the bridge. The streets are closed in tight, dark between tall buildings.
‘I grew up here,’ I tell the driver, as we pass by the upscale condominiums and trendy boutiques, ‘before it got fancy.’
The driver gives a good-natured guffaw. ‘Lot less safe back then too.’
‘Cops everywhere,’ I agree. ‘I used to hang around crime scenes trying to spot things they’d missed.’
‘Bet they loved that. How do you know Mark Li?’
I hesitate. ‘I used to work for Simone Walters. The forensic attorney. She has a reality law show on TV.’
Through the glass I see his head bob up and down. ‘Wrongly Accused? I love that show! Solve the puzzle, right?’
I smile. ‘Right. Simone sees life as one big treasure hunt, with a murder at the end. You know she was raised in a trailer park? She won a scholarship to Kensington Manor Boarding School. Lost her Kentucky accent. Learned how to act like one of America’s wealthy elite.
’ I sigh. ‘She was always trying to teach me how to do the same, but it never stuck.’
Unease ripples through me. Simone is bound to be at the crime scene already. Meeting my former boss is going to be awkward to say the least.
We’ve left the huddled streets of the Lower East for the wider roads and skyscrapers of Mid-Town, its metro stations disgorging teeming clumps of people into the morning sun.
The flow thins as we break into the tree-lined grandeur of the upper east, stately townhouses smiling benevolently on the sidewalks of boutiques and glittering glass restaurants.
The river of arterial traffic on Madison runs yellow and black with cabs and chauffeured cars.
Ahead, rising majestically from the manicured sidewalk, is the timeless elegance of the New York Plaza.
Stretching up into the clouds like a fairtytale castle.
It has an iconic vista all of its own, turreted with a regal facade, a thousand rectangular windows detailed in intricate stone carving, and deep blue awnings at street level.
‘You know the Plaza was built on a murder scene?’ I tell the driver, trying to quell the unease I always feel entering grand places with well-dressed people.
A pause. ‘For a pretty girl, you sure talk a lot about death,’ observes the driver, slowing the car.
‘Occupational hazard,’ I admit. As he pulls to a stop, I see a broad-shouldered man standing by one of the white Grecian pillars that frame the carpeted steps and gold balustrade leading to the Plaza’s iconic Art Deco glass doors.
I recognize him immediately. Mark’s mix of Chinese and European heritage is distinctive.
The brown hair, light eyes and angular cheekbones are model-handsome.
To my relief, Simone isn’t waiting with him. She must be inside.
‘No tip, ma’am,’ the driver says, as I rummage in my purse for bills. ‘It’s all taken care of by Mr Li.’
Second time in one day. The familiar feeling of having breached some unseen formal protocol descends.
‘Well. Thanks for the ride,’ I say, sliding out of the car, without waiting for him to open the door.
Fancy buildings always put me on edge, and nerves are getting the better of me. Whatever Mark Li called me in to do, I may as well get it over with.