Night Film(128)

Of course, he was right. In some ways, I’d known from the beginning where this was all heading: back to The Peak.

“We’ll find a way to break in,” Hopper went on. “And whatever evidence we find, whatever truth we uncover about the Cordovas, however f*cked up or however innocent, afterward, all three of us will decide together what to do with the knowledge. We’ll take a vote, and that’ll be it.”

He eyed me with obvious mistrust as he said this, exhaling cigarette smoke in a fast stream.

“But first we find the Spider,” I said.





89


The following day, we planned to be at Hugo Villarde’s antiques shop, The Broken Door, when it opened at 4:00 P.M.

But in the mayhem of the past week, I’d forgotten one crucial detail: Santa Barbara. I had custody of Sam for the long weekend. Cynthia called me early, telling me that Sam’s new nanny—a woman named Staci Dillon—was going to pick up Sam from school at three-fifteen and bring her straight to my apartment. Cynthia had given the woman a set of my keys, so this wasn’t a problem; I figured she could let herself in and wait with Sam until we returned from the antiques shop.

But the entire morning passed, then the early afternoon, and there was no word from this new nanny. I called her every half-hour, wondering how in the hell my ex-wife decided to trust a woman who ended her name in i. She might as well have hired someone named Ibiza or Tequila. Finally, at two-thirty, Staci called. She’d had an emergency; her seventeen-year-old son had been in a car accident on the Bruckner Expressway. He was okay, but she was coming from a Bronx hospital and running about an hour late. The earliest she could be at my apartment was five. I assured her it was no problem for me to pick Sam up from school. This meant, however, I’d have to bring Sam with me to The Broken Door—an unpleasant prospect.

“Call Cynthia,” said Nora. “She might have a backup nanny.”

“I can’t do that. She’s about to get on a plane.”

“What about some 1-800 emergency nanny service?” asked Hopper, sitting on the couch’s armrest.

“I can’t send a stranger to pick up Sam.”

“Hopper and I can go to the shop,” said Nora.

“And I sit this one out?”

She nodded. It wasn’t a mystery where that suggestion was coming from; she was still stonewalling me after last night’s heated discussion about what was real and what wasn’t.

“Just take her with us,” said Hopper. “If it’s sketchy? Leave.”

I said nothing, thinking it over. We were close to something. I could feel it. If I left such a critical confrontation in the hands of Hopper and Nora, the lead could be blown entirely. Villarde could be tipped off, and he’d slip right through our fingers. But to put Sam in any kind of danger was inconceivable.

“Better decide soon,” said Hopper. “We need to go.”





90


There was no obvious storefront and no sign, only a closed garage door with peeling red paint.

Dead vines clung to the brick fa?ade in long coils, like coarse strands of hair left on tiles after a shower. The upper floors were derelict, the windows broken or boarded up. The building had once been quite elegant, probably—detailed pilaster Corinthian columns flanked the garage; there was a row of yellow-and-blue stained-glass windows along the ground floor—but now it was all encrusted with dirt and washed out, as if the building had been buried for years and excavated only days ago.

I stepped up to one of the doors, checking to see if there were apartment buzzers, and was amazed to see the name right there—VILLARDE—written neatly by hand in black pen beside a buzzer for the second floor.

“He must live above the shop,” Hopper said quietly, staring up at the building.

The second floor was the only one with windows that weren’t blown out. They were tall and narrow, the glass filthy, though in one I could see long yellow curtains hanging there, and a terra-cotta pot with a small green plant.

“Scott.” Sam was yanking my hand. “Scott.”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Who’s that man?”

She was pointing at Hopper.

“I told you, honey. That’s Hopper.”

She squinted up at me. “He’s your friend?”

“Yes.”

She considered this seriously, scrunching her mouth to the side. She then frowned at Nora, who’d moved toward the other door, trying the handle.

“It’s locked,” Nora whispered, shading her eyes as she looked in the window.

Sam was wearing her Spence uniform—white blouse, green-and-blue plaid jumper—though Cynthia had naturally added her Merchant Ivory touches: black coat with puffed sleeves, velvet barrette in her ringlets, black patent-leather shoes. From the moment we’d picked Sam up, she’d been shy and watchful—toward Hopper, in particular. She was also extremely squirmy, shuffling her feet, bouncing on my arm, putting her head way, way back to ask me something—all of which signaled she was coming down off some serious sugar and needed a snack.

“It’s dark inside,” said Nora, still peering in the window.

“What time is it?” I asked.

Hopper checked his phone. “Ten after four.”

“Let’s give it fifteen minutes.”