Roger stepped up to the podium, where he looked down at curly crown, shaking his hand, then turned to the audience. “I won’t keep you too long, because I know you’ve come for the main event.” He paused, letting the audience focus fully on him. “Derick has been hailed as an overnight success story, catapulted onto the national scene. But really, my friends, I can attest that he has been a long time in the making. And the learning. This is a man who has shown himself ready for the biggest job in the greatest nation, a man who will bring back the prestige of the Office of the President after, I’m sure we would all agree, some rocky years.”
A spattering of pained chuckles. Roger listened to the laughter, smiling.
“I’ve known Derick and have worked with him since he was an earnest volunteer for my ill-fated run for Congress representing the Upper East Side. As many of you know, it became clear to me at that time that I was a better mentor than a politician. And I am proud to say that I found this guy.” Roger swept his hand toward the mayor. “He has the rare combination of smarts and an innate ability to connect with people. But I will tell you a secret: he is also a huge policy wonk. And I am sure you will appreciate his discussion today of affordable housing, infrastructure, and immigration.
“I thank you all for coming out and contributing to make it possible to hear his thoughts on the challenging issues that face our nation and to help him move forward in his quest to do something about them. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Derick Sullivan.”
The house broke into applause. The mayor kissed his wife on the cheek and rose to shake Roger’s hand at the podium.
“Just over a week since the second-worst mass killing in New York City history,” Mayor Sullivan began, on a somber note, “I continue to work closely with the NYPD and all the federal agencies to figure out why it happened and how they would prevent it happening again. As a small aside, while we all know that the NYPD patrols the subways, the subway system is itself the responsibility of the governor.”
Emily groaned inside. The governor was also “exploring” whether he would run for president, and she was sure the mayor was about to steer the wheels of the bus over him.
“We have gone on record in the past that we want the MTA to remove garbage bins on subway platforms. Studies have shown they merely attract trash and do nothing to prevent it. Worse still, they are the perfect receptacle for an improvised explosive. Exactly what happened here. We know the terrorist had no real connection to New York City and was from upstate New York. As the greatest city in the world, we will inevitably attract sick people looking to do maximum damage, whether they are affiliated officially with a terrorist organization or not. That’s why, if I am elected president, I will make sure that the cities of this great nation—most especially this great city—receive the funding necessary to deal with our terrorism risk. We will not be shortchanged by Homeland Security anymore.”
The room exploded with applause.
Carrying a bowl of yogurt and a cup of tea, Roger sat next to Emily as the mayor began to speak at length about health care. Hers was one of the few half-empty tables, probably because there were no movers and shakers sitting there, just two staffers, an intern, and an old man.
Roger wiped off his spoon with his napkin before putting the napkin neatly on his lap and spooning yogurt and fresh fruit into his mouth.
“So, Emily, you’ve been with us for about a year now?” Roger asked, after the mayor finished his speech and took a question from a man at the far side of the room.
“Yes, just over.”
“How are you liking us?”
“I’m very happy. I love it.”
“Where did you go to school? I confess,” he said in a conspiratorial manner, “I’ve heard Derick’s Q and A at least a hundred times, and it gets boring.”
Emily saw Max out of the corner of her eye, looking dubiously at Roger as if wondering whether Roger was moving into Max’s imagined territory, even though Roger was old enough to be her father.
“NYU, undergraduate and graduate.”
Roger leaned in to be heard over the noise of another round of applause. “Is your family from New York?” Emily noticed the pores of his skin, rolling along light wrinkles that had probably been chemically smoothed. No frown lines. “You have a born-and-bred New York accent,” he continued, “not that young people have much of an accent nowadays. When I was young, New York sounded like New York. Boston sounded like Boston. Nowadays, even southerners sound virtually indistinguishable from northerners.”
Emily gave that some thought. Her mother had the thickest New York accent of anyone she knew, and even that wasn’t like the Brooklyn accents in old movies.
“What do your parents do?” Roger asked.
“My mother is an attorney. A divorce lawyer. My stepfather is an FBI agent.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
Emily didn’t say anything about her real father. Her father dying young in a fire was too dark for breakfast conversation.
“Family is everything, in my opinion,” Roger said. “Work hard, play hard, but family is the most important thing. Don’t ever let work become more important than that. Although this man here”—he signaled to the mayor—“he’s as close to me as family. I’m a true believer. Honored to be along for the ride with him.”
After the Q and A, Mayor Sullivan began stopping at tables to personally greet the donors. Roger also worked the room, schmoozing with the people Emily figured he’d invited—and whose checks he bundled. Emily spotted Chief Reilly standing near a wall, watching the goings-on. She wondered if he was off duty, working campaign security. A thought jelled in her mind.
She went over to stand beside Reilly. “Good morning.”
“Hey, Emily, how are you?”
“I’m great, thanks. You?”
“Can’t complain. Nobody likes a complainer,” the chief said dryly, still looking out at the room.
“Listen, I wanted to get information on a case. Could I call later?”
“What’s the case?”
“Sharon Williams, a prostitute murdered last week.”
“Pretty far out of your wheelhouse, isn’t it?”
“There’s a reporter doing a series of articles about prostitution.” For some reason, Emily hadn’t thought about what she’d say if he asked why she was interested in the case. She hadn’t thought through her impulsive ask at all, and now she certainly didn’t want to talk about her friendship with Sharon’s former madam. “I thought we might get ahead of it.”
“Oh, yeah, I saw the story about Hunts Point in the clips. Nice quote in there. What do you need?”
“Mostly I was wondering if I could get the results from the medical examiner’s report. I’m wondering how she died. The North Beach Killer has been on the loose in the city for a long time …”
“That’s easy enough.” Chief Reilly took out a small notepad from his inside jacket pocket and jotted down a note. “I’ll give you a call.”
CHAPTER
19
THE NEXT DAY, Lauren lay next to her beautiful, perfect husband in their king-sized bed. Golden late-day light seeped around the edges of the venetian blinds. Thank god Carl could still have sex. For his sake more than hers, although Lauren could admit to herself that she might not feel as sanguine about it if she wasn’t getting any.
Carl kissed the top of Lauren’s head, which rested on his shoulder. He wasn’t as strong as he’d been, but her heart still inflated every time she saw his bottomless chocolate eyes and generous smile. His love showed plain on his face when he saw his special people, not just her and Alex, but Emily and Jessica and Rick too. Plus, his sisters, aunts, and cousins. Carl loved freely and deeply.
That pretty much guaranteed a houseful of visitors a lot of the time, and Lauren embraced it. It was so different from the isolation and paranoia of her childhood home. Carl’s family, Emily, and Skye were her only family now, and she was grateful to have them.
She tho
ught, Why him? Why me? Why did a man like Carl have to draw such a rough hand?
Of course, the answer was: Why not him? Why not her? Life was gnarly and complicated, if you risked having one. After the trauma of her childhood, she’d battened down the hatches against every possible storm. Unsuccessfully. She’d married safe, keeping her life small, only to have it upended by Brian, her irresponsible, philandering first husband. Then she’d met Carl. Despite how shaken Lauren had been by her failed marriage and her ex-husband’s sudden death, she had taken a chance on loving Carl. Her life had become full and joyous. She had no regrets. Even if Carl’s current drug trial didn’t pan out, even if he ended up with the worst sort of MS, she wouldn’t change a single thing about her being in that battle with him.
She drifted off to sleep in the crook of Carl’s arm, imagining the drug trial working and picturing Carl back to his old self. She heard Alex’s voice from the front door, “Anybody here? I brought company.”
Lauren opened her eyes. No time for a nap.
Lauren heard the chatter and yelps of young children first and Jessica shushing them. Jessica was her best friend, Brian’s second wife. They were an unlikely duo. Widows-in-law, they called each other jokingly, if anyone asked how they’d met. They’d pretty much raised Emily together—Jessica never writing off her teenage stepdaughter—after Brian’s death. Lauren could hear Jessica’s nine-year-old twins darting ahead of their mother to come look for Lauren and Carl. Type A boys like their father, who’d died before they were born. Gray eyes like Emily, their half sister. Lauren rushed to get dressed before they barged in.
Jessica greeted Lauren in the hallway. She gave Lauren a knowing look and smile, taking in Lauren’s bedhead. “Are we interrupting? We could go to the playground for a while.”
“Don’t be silly.” Lauren released the boys, who had run into her arms to greet her. She smoothed down her hair and walked Jessica to the living room. “Just napping.” Lauren took in the circles under Jessica’s eyes and added, “It looks like you could use one.”
“What’s a nap?” Jessica said as she sat heavily in an armchair.
At forty-three, gorgeous even when exhausted, Jessica was always stretched too thin. It wasn’t easy going through medical school and now the twenty-four-hour shifts of a resident, especially without a partner to help raise her twins. Lauren and Emily had tried to do what they could to help with the kids, although Lauren felt stretched thin as well now, dealing with Carl’s medical appointments and challenges and her own fear about that.
Carl came out to the living room, walking more steadily than he had only a few days ago. Lauren’s eyes met Jessica’s and they smiled.
Carl sat and surfed channels on the muted TV. “How are the subway victims doing? Do you still have a lot of them?”
“It’s starting to calm down,” Jessica said. “We had a dozen emergency surgeries last week.”
Alex brought the boys to the kitchen to get cookies. The uproar of their chatter trailed behind them, fading to a hum.
“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” Jessica continued. “We had to amputate the leg of a thirteen-year-old yesterday, below the knee.” She lowered her voice so her sons couldn’t hear, even though Lauren would bet they were thoroughly focused on Alex, their hero. “It took a lot of energy to tamp down my emotions so I could show up fully for her, although all I did was stitch her up after the surgeon finished. The emotional blowback is bad afterward. For me, at least. The girl’s alive and her parents are grateful, but her life will never be normal again. It sucks that we couldn’t save her leg. We really tried.”
“Mattingly wasn’t even an outcast like the school shooters,” Lauren said. “I just don’t understand it.”
Carl put out his hand so Lauren would sit on the arm of his chair next to him, which she did. “He was more like the Las Vegas shooter,” he said. “He kept his distance from people, not the other way around. He didn’t seem to be an attention seeker. He had that one very young girl who says he was her boyfriend, although it sounds like sex was the extent of their relationship. No one ever saw him with her or even talking to her. Based on what she said about their encounters, he was probably a misogynist, but he was a handsome guy, having sex. Not an incel.
“The Bureau’s starting to find some of Mattingly’s more obscure social media posts. He had several online identities. He never spouted off an ideological point of view. He just followed, liked, sometimes posted laughing emojis on photos relating to mass killings. He followed ISIS types. He was a fan of Jihad John’s beheading videos.”
Jessica groaned.
“And he was a total fanboy of the New Zealand mosque massacre too. It doesn’t look like it was political or religious.”
“In other words,” Lauren said, “the kid was even less principled than a narcissistic ISIS executioner.”
“Yup, if you can imagine that.”
* * *
At dusk, Kathleen wrote on a pad on her desk as she listened to the person on the phone. “Okay, and the hourly rate? Yes, okay, tomorrow will be good.”
She turned on wall light switches in the darkening apartment and walked to the door while she talked. She looked out the peephole before opening the door.
Wearing cutoff denim shorts and a spaghetti-strap shirt, Emily kissed her on the cheek. Despite the recent tension when they’d talked about Sharon’s profession, they were becoming friends.
Kathleen waved her into the living room, where the TV played on mute. “I’ll pay the deposit on Venmo and see you tomorrow at ten AM. Thank you.” Kathleen put her phone down on the thick arm of a couch and spoke to Emily. “I have a storage company coming to pick up Sharon’s things.”
Emily sat on the couch. “That’s a big job. Can you manage it yourself?”
“It’s a surprisingly small job. The furniture belongs to the condo owner. It was a furnished rental, it turns out. She had clothes that need to be boxed up, very little else. It was an impersonal place. It makes me feel like she had somewhere else where she really lived. But the doorman said she was there regularly. She had her routines, running in the Park, grocery shopping. Not that there was much in the fridge. I wish I had been a better friend to her. I didn’t stay in touch in ways that count. I didn’t know anything important about her life.”
Emily gave her a long look. “She knew who to come to when she was in trouble. I think that shows that you were a friend in the ways that count. It’s not like she committed suicide and you missed the signs. She was killed, and you didn’t do it.”
Kathleen felt warmed by Emily’s words. Emily had grown up into a compassionate and insightful person. “Thank you. I needed to hear that. So, where’s my favorite baby?”
“With Hector. He works Saturday and Sunday and gets two weeknights off. He keeps her then.”
“You have a good relationship?”
“We’ve been friends since middle school. He was my high school boyfriend. We broke up in college but stayed friends. I guess you’d say friends with occasional benefits. When I got pregnant, he wanted to get back together. But in my mind, we weren’t together before, so why would it work if a baby pushed us together? Plus, from what I’ve read, the outcomes are better for kids who have parents who never lived together than for kids who have parents who break up. It avoids trauma.”
“You’ve read studies on it?” Kathleen asked, raising her eyebrows.
Emily smiled. “Evidence-backed child-rearing. It can’t hurt to be informed.”
“I see your point,” Kathleen said, but she wondered whether Emily’s stance on Hector was based on evidence or, more likely, on Emily’s disappointment in her father. It was one thing to have a high school or college boyfriend. It was another to risk becoming a family together. Kathleen wondered if Emily’s fear of that risk had caused their breakup in the first place.
“Hector is very traditional,” Emily went on. “He doesn’t entirely see things my way. Beside that little point of contention, I couldn’t b
e luckier. He’s an amazing father and a great partner to raise Skye with.”
On TV, a news anchor was saying something about the subway attack. Video of the ambulances racing away from the scene played in the background, the hundredth time Kathleen had seen it. She turned up the sound.
“Today, the MTA announced it would remove all the garbage containers from the subway system. After the commercial break, we will have an interview with the parents of Jackson Mattingly’s secret fifteen-year-old girlfriend. We are learning that Homeland Security took her in for extensive questioning this week. We will find out more from her parents about whether she is suspected of helping Mattingly in the attack and whether he gave her any hints about it beforehand.”
“Oy.” Kathleen muted it. “I’d lay odds they won’t report any new information from exploiting the teenage girlfriend.” She pulled Sharon’s Al-Anon book from her shoulder bag. “Let me show you a photo I found at the apartment.”
“Why was Sharon going to Al-Anon? My mother went there,” Emily said offhandedly.
“Really?” Kathleen sat next to Emily, trying to hide her interest. It wasn’t surprising, but the thought triggered her familiar vortex of painful memories, mixed with hope that Lauren had gotten the help she needed.
Kathleen fished the photo out from between the pages of the book and handed it to Emily.
Emily studied it. “They look happy together. Her girlfriend?”
“Yes. The manager at the Easy Street said Sharon had a girlfriend named Angel or Angela. Sharon’s doorman says it’s her. But he didn’t know her last name.”
Emily took out her phone. “Do you mind if I take a picture of it?”
Kathleen shrugged. “That’s fine.”
Emily laid the photo of Sharon and Angela on the coffee table and snapped the picture. “I have an app that does reverse lookups of photos. It will tell us whether the picture has been posted anywhere.”
Gone by Morning Page 8