JM03 - Red Cat Read Online Free PDF Page A

hair?”

    She laughed. “You’re way off base. Holly’s got red hair, and she’s had it all her life. So your client must be wrong, Mr. Fitch. Maybe he got the windows mixed up.”

    “I didn’t say that my client saw a blond, Ms. Nolan. In fact, what he saw was a tall, thirtyish woman with thick auburn hair, fair skin, a narrow face, and a slender build. Does that sound familiar?”

    Her response was slow in coming, and when it did, confusion and surprise vied with anger in her voice. “That sounds like…But she would’ve…You…you tricked me.”

    “And I’m sorry about that, but does the description fit Holly Cade?”

    A few moments more of silence, and anger won out in Jill Nolan. It made her smarter. “How could your client see someone so clearly from all the way down in the street, anyway? You lied to me, Mr. Fitch— if that’s your real name— and I don’t think I’ll talk to you anymore.”

    “I’m sorry you feel that way. If you give me Holly’s number, I could finish up with her directly.”

    I wasn’t surprised when the line went dead, and I wasn’t dissatisfied, either. I had a name to work with now, and maybe the name of my little bird. Holly Cade.

    * * *

    Holly Cade who had no listed phone number and no address, no car registration or voter registration, no real property in her name— almost no presence at all in the on-line world. Almost.

    I found a reference to her on the website of some sort of performance space in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, on its calendar of events. The event in question was the staging of a play entitled Liars Club, by a theater troupe called the Gimlet Players. Liars Club was a one-act work, penned by one of the Gimlet’s founders, a certain Holly Cade. Unfortunately for me, the performance had taken place three Aprils ago, and in the meanwhile the Gimlet Players seemed to have disbanded.

    The only other trace I found was a brief mention of her in a back issue of something called Digital Gumbo: The On-line Journal of Emerging Video Arts. Clicking through the website didn’t tell me much about “emerging video arts” or anything else, and most of the articles read like muddled pastiches of Jacques Derrida and Roland Barthes. The reference to Holly was in a review of a group show at the Krug Gallery, in Woodstock, New York. Holly was one of four artists who had exhibited their video works there nearly two years ago. The review was lukewarm, and Holly’s piece rated barely two sentences. Like the Gimlet Players, the Krug Gallery hadn’t stood the test of time; it had closed last May. Which left me, as the evening wore out, knowing not much more about Holly Cade than her name. Except that I remembered what Jill Nolan had said.

    “Because I’ve known her since, like, second grade…”

    Holly Cade was mostly invisible on the Web, but Jill Nolan was not. I found a one-paragraph biography of her on the touring company’s website, and a headshot of her bland, pretty, bright-toothed face. The bio was mostly a list of stage and TV credits, but near the end was the nugget I’d been looking for. “Born and raised in Wilton, Connecticut…”

    4

    Forty-eight hours was more time than David wanted to wait for a progress report. I was happy to report what little progress I’d made over the telephone, but David wouldn’t have it. He was typically specific in his other demands too: no stopping by his office, no meetings south of Park Row or anywhere on the Upper East Side, and definitely no house calls— not to his house, anyway. In the end, we met at the Florida Room, an airy, high-concept diner around the corner from my place. It has a lot of jalousies and slow-turning ceiling fans, and enough background noise for private conversation. There’s a row of booths along the back wall and I was in one, working on a bowl of oatmeal, when David arrived. He kept his coat on and sat and stared out the windows at the pedestrians and cars.

    “Holly Cade,” he said