The Temporary Detective

Chapter Forty-Three

Isobel grabbed her coat from Nikki's chair and threw it on. As she ran down the hall, she tucked the Filofax carefully in the inside pocket, and struggled to get the strap of her bag over her shoulder. It weighed a ton. In addition to all the extra stuff she'd brought along for her audition, she also had the personal items she had accumulated during her stay at InterBank Switzerland: two sweaters, a stack of pictures and résumés, a book of monologues, two pairs of shoes, and a travel coffee mug. She couldn't understand how she had accumulated so much junk. And she still didn't have a working umbrella.

At that moment, Isobel caught sight of Conchita's sturdy, long-handed umbrella, which she had unaccountably left leaning against the filing cabinet.

"Muchas gracias, señora!" she said as she grabbed it.

The lobby seemed overly bright, and there was one lone security guard on duty.

"Sign out, please," he droned.

She scrawled a squiggle underneath the squiggle Stan had scrawled just moments before. For the second time today, she peered out the front door of the building, trying to catch sight of the person she was trying to follow. Only this time, she had an umbrella. But it had finally stopped raining, and the umbrella became one more unwieldy thing to carry. Still, as she followed Stan toward the subway, keeping a healthy distance, she knew better than to dump it. Ditching an umbrella, especially one as nice as this, would only guarantee another downpour.

She saw Stan descend the subway stairs on the downtown side and started after him.

Suddenly, she stopped short. What was she doing? She had an audition to go to! She knew she only had a few seconds to make her decision. She could take the uptown train and go to the audition she was already late for, with no makeup on, not warmed up, for people who probably remembered her as a blithering idiot.

Or she could follow her instincts and trail Stan downtown. Gay, straight, male, female, you don't get all decked out like that unless you're meeting someone. And she wanted to know who it was.

Your gut is a better actor than your brain, Delphi had said. And in some cases, your gut is also smarter than your brain, Isobel thought, as she followed Stan into the subway. There would be other chances to perform, in better productions that actually paid something. There wouldn't be another chance to follow Stan Henderson in drag.

The platform was crowded enough for Isobel to observe Stan at a comfortable distance. Strangely, his new look was an improvement. He simply made more sense as a woman. The soft contours, fleshy lips, even his hips. He must have been wearing shapewear of some kind, because he had an actual figure. He even turned a few heads, although Isobel wasn't sure if that was because he looked good or because he was still obviously a man.

A downtown R train arrived, and Isobel let herself be carried on by a crush of people. Stan got on at the opposite end of the same car. Given his relative height and his mass of auburn curls, he stood out enough that Isobel could see him get off at Prince Street.

She followed him outside into a soft, misting rain, glad she hadn't ditched the umbrella, and trailed him west into the heart of SoHo. Isobel hadn't been to this part of the city yet, but even at this relatively early hour in bad weather, it was quite obviously the place to be on a Friday night. The streets were lined with small galleries, boutiques and clubs, and the air vibrated with a sense of impending party. She followed Stan as he headed south to Greene Street. On the corner was a windowless black building with a large blue neon letter "X." The only giveaway that it wasn't an abandoned warehouse was the line of people snaking down the block.