Page 59 of Things We Do in the Dark
“He know you coming?” Soft Vietnamese accent, suspicious tone.
“We have a meeting, yes.” He pulls out a business card and offers it to her. “Drew Malcolm.”
“You wait here.” She plucks the card from his fingers and closes the door. Drew hears it lock.
While he waits, he looks at the houses across the street on the other side of Lakeshore Road. They’re not waterfront, which decreases their value significantly, but some of them are just as big. Somewhere on the other end of Oakville, farther away from the lake, Simone’s parents live in a small townhouse. Mr. and Mrs. Bailey always did like him. Maybe he should drop by for a visit, catch up, find out whether Simone married the dude she cheated on him with, since she doesn’t have any social media accounts.
Yeah, hard pass.
The door opens again. “Come inside,” the tiny woman says, and Drew steps through the door.
His entire two-bedroom-plus-den condo could fit in this entryway alone. The ceilings are probably eighteen feet high, and there’s a clear view from the foyer straight through to the back of the house, which is completely walled in glass. The view of Lake Ontario should have been unobstructed, except that right in the center of the foyer is a nine-foot marble statue of a voluptuous, naked woman with long, wavy hair and nipples the size of grapes. The statue is awesome, gaudy, and completely distracting.
The small woman waits patiently as he takes it all in, as if it’s normal for everybody to gawk at the house, the lake, and the statue when they first get here. Which they probably do, in that order.
“No shoes.” She looks down at Drew’s feet, which are encased in clean white Nikes. Using her pinky finger, she points to a large wicker basket by the door. It’s filled with slippers. All styles, all colors, all in various states of wear. “You want wear slippers?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” a tall blond woman says as she comes around the corner. She’s wearing slippers, too, but hers are furry and bright blue. “And if he did, I’m sure we don’t have anything in his size.C?m on.”
The older woman nods and leaves.
“Lauren Tranh.” The blonde stretches a languid hand out toward Drew. “Tony’s wife. You must be Drew. He’s just finishing up a call in his office.”
Mrs. Tranh is white, at least five ten, and stunning. She looks vaguely familiar. Former actress or model? Reality star? If there ever comes a day when Bravo decides to introduce aReal Housewives of Oakvilleto their franchise, Lauren Tranh will be a shoo-in.
He shakes her hand. “Should I remove my shoes?”
“Yes, please.”
He takes them off and places them neatly by the door. When he stands and turns around again, she has a small smile on her face.
“What is it?” He returns the smile.
“It’s just nice to have someone in the house taller than me,” she says, amused. “Doesn’t happen often.”
She’s standing right beside the marble statue, and it hits him where he’s seen her. Same hair, same lips, same—
He swallows. The naked statue is of her.Damn.
It’s exactly what she wanted him to see, and, satisfied, she leads him down the hallway.
Tranh’s office is at the back corner of the house, and like everything else, it’s enormous. He’s still on the phone when Drew is led in, but he smiles and gestures for his guest to sit. Drew points to the bookcases covering the entire side wall, and Tranh nods again, mouthinggo aheadin English before continuing his conversation in Vietnamese.
The built-in bookshelves are so tall, they require their own ladder. Tranh’s collection is impressive. Drew finds everything from a first edition ofLittle Womento a signed hardcover ofThe Shining. While he doesn’t really envy Tranh his house, his lake view, his cars, or even his wife, he does feel a stab of jealousy over these bookcases.
If only he were the head of a violent gang that killed people and got kids hooked on drugs, he’d be rich, too.
“See any you like?”
Tony Tranh is off the phone and standing right beside him. They shake hands, and though Tranh is nearly a foot shorter than Drew, he doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated. A trim man in his early fifties, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored black button-down, pressed chinos, and leather Gucci slides. Drew feels a bit lame in his cheap white athletic socks from Costco. Twelve bucks for a pack of eight.
“All of them,” Drew replies with a smile. “Your collection is impressive, as is your home.”
The answer pleases Tranh. He gestures to the chairs facing the windows and the lake, and they both sit.
“So you mentioned to my assistant that you host a true crime podcast.” Though he was born in Saigon and didn’t immigrate to Canada until he was sixteen, Tranh speaks with no accent at all. “I listened to your inaugural episode about the billionaire murders. So fascinating. How many listeners do you have?”
“About three million per episode.”
