What You Want to See

by Kristen Lepionka

  That was it.

  Anyone could get business cards that identified them as anything. I knew this from experience, because I had a bit of a library of them myself. Depending on the context, I called myself a detective, a production coordinator, a claims adjuster. There was nothing official about a business card, but if your actual business was manipulating people, you’d know that they gave a story an air of authenticity.

  I wasn’t sure what kind of gambit involved posing as an interior decorator, though.

  Who the hell was this woman?

  “Maybe her business was in trouble,” Arthur offered feebly. “And she didn’t want to tell me. And now I’ll never know.”

  I swirled around the last bit of whiskey in my glass. “Maybe, yeah,” I said, not sure what else to say.

  “Listen,” he continued, “talking it all through with you right now, it makes me realize. I’m in a bad spot.”

  “Your circumstances could be better, yes.”

  He gave me a faint smile. “I know I already owe you money. But can I hire you again, to find out what the hell happened?”

  “Arthur—”

  “I know,” he said. “I know you got to protect yourself and all that, and nobody wants a deadbeat client. But look, I have other accounts. Honest. Tomorrow, maybe Thursday, I could give you five, ten grand. Cash.”

  I sighed. I was intrigued, and I was also worried for him. The fight at the restaurant, the gun—it made for a good enough argument, if you weren’t paying much attention. But it was clear that there was more to the story, and it wasn’t a good sign that Sanko seemed less than interested in finding out what it was. I had zero confidence in Arthur’s ability to procure five or ten thousand dollars in cash by tomorrow or Thursday, but I also didn’t like how things shook out after the last time I told him to keep his money.

  “All right,” I said. “If, and only if, you contact a lawyer too. That will help you more than I can, okay?”

  Relief flooded through his washed-out eyes. “Thank you, Miss Weary. Roxane.”

  I finished my drink. “Don’t thank me yet.”

  * * *

  I stopped at the Angry Baker on the way home. They were closed already, but Shelby was waiting for me outside with a grease-spotted bag full of what I hoped were chocolate-iced doughnuts for me. I knew she didn’t make much money working there part time, but the free day-old doughnuts had to be worth something. She was talking to a girl, a cute girl with an intentionally lopsided haircut, maybe a couple years older than Shelby’s brand-new age of eighteen. I rolled down my window and looked out blankly, prepared to ask for directions or something as a ruse in case she wanted to ditch our plans and hang out with her new friend. But when she saw me, she gave me a little wave and quickly ended the conversation before hopping into my car.

  “Who was that?” I said once the window was closed again. “I was trying to give you an out, but you blew it.”

  Shelby laughed, her face turning pink. “That’s Miriam. She comes in every afternoon for a coffee and a croissant.”

  “And to see you.”

  “No, jeez, we were just talking today because she liked my shirt.”

  I glanced over to take in Shelby’s faded Tori Amos tee. “Good taste. So when’s the wedding?”

  “Stop it, OMG.” But she was grinning as she thrust the paper bag at me. “Here. Payment for spending your Tuesday night looking at an apartment with your surrogate niece.”

  I tapped the brakes to pause at a stop sign and reached into the bag for a doughnut. “Surrogate niece?”

  “Well, aren’t you kind of like my cool aunt?”

  I liked the sound of that. “Yeah, okay,” I said, “surrogate niece. So where is this place?”

  “It’s at Rich and Eleventh. My dad said it’s going to be crappy like the other ones, but the pictures seemed nice.”

  “Well, let’s hope.” I shoved the doughnut into my mouth.

  I’d met Shelby and her father, Joshua, on a case the previous fall and since then found myself in a role I couldn’t entirely explain, but cool aunt covered it pretty well. Shelby needed a cool aunt, or at least a friend. And I needed her a little bit too; Shelby and Joshua reminded me of the fact that, once upon a time, I’d done something right—a welcome reminder after what had happened with Marin Strasser.

  “It has this great kitchen, like, twice the size of the one at my house,” Shelby went on. “With a brand-new stove. Well, range. That’s what the ad said. Range. Is that a stove?”

  I nodded, chewing. “Gas or electric?”

  “Gas. I’ve never used a gas one before. I probably wouldn’t even know how to turn it on, actually.”

  “It’s a lot easier than an electric,” I said. I elbowed her. “Does this mean I know something about cooking that you don’t?”

  “Ha,” she said. “Now, listen. Let me do the talking this time, even if I get all flustered, okay? I’m trying to get better about that.”

  “Got it.” I turned onto Rich, squinting at the street signs. We were on the far edge of Olde Towne, almost to Franklin University. Despite everything, Shelby was doing okay: in the last six months, she came out to her father, graduated from high school, found a job, registered for fall classes at Columbus State, and was at work on a plan to get the hell out of Belmont. Joshua was taking it all in stride—better than my own father had on the coming-out front—but he thought her goal of moving out already was a bit too soon. I saw his point. But at the same time I didn’t understand why he wasn’t in a hurry to get the hell out of Belmont too. “Okay, Rich and Eleventh,” I said.

  “Right there.” Shelby pointed at a two-story grey brick building with little archways over the door. A young guy in a popped-collar polo stood on the sidewalk in front of it, scowling at his phone. He glanced up at us as I parked the car, then made a show of checking his watch.

  As requested, I let Shelby do the talking, and while the popped collar gave her a halfhearted tour of the place, I hung by the window and scoped out the cars parked on either side of the street: regular old sedans, for the most part, not too new and not too old. It wasn’t exactly scientific, but the state of the vehicles on any given block always seemed like a good indicator of its vibe. The apartment itself was tiny, a first-floor studio with badly patched walls and a sloping hardwood floor. It did have a lot of natural light going for it, plus a big kitchen, with the sort of new but cheap fixtures that screamed tax-benefit renovation. It wasn’t a horrible place for a first apartment. But it was nothing to get excited about either. The popped collar scowled snobbily at Shelby as she looked around. He seemed cut from the same cloth as my new upstairs neighbor—a gentrifier, someone who wanted to make the neighborhood into something other than it was.

  This became obvious when he started listing off the terms of the rental agreement: “Thirty-five-dollar application fee, and that’s per tenant, not per unit. Security deposit is two months’ rent—that’s eight hundred a month.” He rattled on, but Shelby’s face fell.

  “The Craigslist ad said six-fifty,” she said, her voice small.

  The guy stopped and sneered. “Sorry, that’s a mistake. It’s definitely going to go for eight hundred. Now, where was I. Okay, security deposit is sixteen hundred, there’s a nonrefundable pet deposit of three hundred…”

  Shelby looked like she was about to cry. The popped collar wandered into the kitchen as I went over to her, the uneven floors creaking under my feet.

  “They can just put one thing in the ad to get you to come and then suddenly it’s higher?” Shelby whispered. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does, Shel,” I said. “But you can do better than this place.”

  “Not really. You saw the other places. They were way worse. That grey carpet left over from an office building? Bars on the windows? I thought this was going to be a good one. Six-fifty, I could swing. But eight hundred?”

  “No, eight hundred is a racket for this place. I don’t even pay eight hundred and I have five
times as much space.”

  “Yeah, but that’s because you’ve lived there forever,” she said.

  “Rent would be way easier if you were splitting it. Maybe you could get a place with a friend?”

  Her cheeks went pink. “Roxane, I literally don’t have any friends.”

  I opened my mouth, momentarily speechless. The popped collar chose that moment to walk back over and interrupt with, “Eight hundred is a very good deal for the area.”

  “Um, great,” I said. Now I was the one who was flustered. “We’ll have to think about it. Do you have an application or something we could take?”

  “Ma’am, that stuff’s all online now.”

  “Never mind,” Shelby said, making a beeline for the door. “I’m gonna go wait in the car.”

  She hurried out of the apartment, leaving me face-to-face with the popped collar. “Eight hundred is insane,” I told him before I walked out too.

  Shelby was in the car with the door propped open, fiddling with her phone. I got in behind the wheel and cleared my throat. “Shelby,” I started.

  “We don’t have to talk about it,” she said. Even though she didn’t look up at me, I could see the tension and embarrassment on her face, hear it in her voice.

  I sighed. “You know I want to help. That’s why I’ve looked at, what is it, eight places with you? And I’ll look at eight or twenty or a hundred more, okay? We’ll find something. It might just take a while. And it’s not like you’re on a deadline.”

  “I am though,” Shelby said, her head snapping toward me. “I have to get out of there. Every time I look at her house, I just—” She stopped and took a deep breath.

  She was referring to Veronica Cruz, her next-door neighbor and best friend—and longtime crush. Veronica was doing well enough after her abduction ordeal in November but had moved to Oregon with her mother for a fresh start. No one, Shelby included, could blame her for wanting to start over. But that didn’t make it any easier. I said, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking when I said that.”

  “It’s really hard, okay? There’s this sad For Sale sign in Veronica’s yard and it’s never going to sell, right? No one wants to live in Belmont now. There’s like four houses down the street on the market already. That’s why my dad says he can’t move, because there’s no way anyone would buy our house. And I get that, but it doesn’t mean I have to stay there.”

  “No, of course not.” I rubbed my forehead. I’d already let my client down, and I hated doing the same to Shelby. For whatever reason, I still felt responsible for looking out for her. I hoped it wasn’t some kind of biological-clock situation kicking in randomly at the age of thirty-four. “I’m telling you, we’re going to find you a place before school starts. I promise.” I gave her a quick hug over the console. “And don’t say you don’t have any friends. You have me. I know I’m not Veronica, but I’m not so bad, right?”

  Finally, she smiled. “No, you’re pretty okay.”

  I stuck my hand into the paper bag for another doughnut. “Come on, have one so I don’t feel like a total pig. We can toast to pretty okay.”

  She groaned. “But I’ve already had like four of these today.” Then she got a doughnut out of the bag and tapped it against mine. “Oh jeez, I didn’t even ask you how you’re doing,” she said.

  I shook my head as I chewed. “Don’t.”

  THREE

  I woke up to the beep-beep of a large vehicle backing up behind the building. My dream, in which the beeping was a submarine sonar, fizzled out and left me staring blankly at the ceiling. The previous tenant had put glow-in-the-dark stars up there, but in the ashy light of dawn they just looked like weird yellow blobs. I checked the clock: 6:25. Then I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but it was immediately clear that I wouldn’t be able to with that racket outside. I got up and retrieved my jeans from the floor and pulled them on. I stepped out onto the back patio and glared ineffectively at the box truck. Bluebird or whatever her name was stood in the yard, motioning for the driver to continue onto the grass.

  “What’s going on?” I called to her.

  She looked over her shoulder at me, oblivious to my glaring. “Raised garden beds. Glenn said it was okay.”

  I doubted that my cranky, ancient landlord had said anything of the sort, but I shrugged and went back inside while the beeping continued. I closed some windows to turn on the AC. The perfect weather from yesterday had spoiled overnight, giving way to the kind of lank humidity that comprised most of an Ohio summer.

  After I made a cup of tea—cinnamon, with a splash of whiskey to take the edge off the early morning—I sat down at my desk, then opened my computer to the remains of last night’s background search on Marin Strasser. I hadn’t gotten very far. Or, rather, I’d gotten much farther than I usually did without getting many hits. Round one: social media—nothing. Round two: previous addresses—nothing other than Arthur’s place, where she had lived for a grand total of ten months. Round three: the general trappings of bureaucracy, such as court records, property information, business filings, voter registration, or speeding tickets, all of which could be good sources for personal details. Except this time, I found nothing. Marin Strasser didn’t own a car or a house or a business that was registered with the state; she’d never gotten a traffic citation or even so much as a parking ticket. She had a Social Security number, so she did exist—but she’d never held a job or opened a bank account either. For some reason, she was very careful about not leaving a trail. So basically, after three hours of checking every source I could think of, the only paper trail I could find on her was a Dispatch entry about her murder. I didn’t even get any of the junk search results that offer to give you every piece of information about a person, if you just enter your credit card number and sign up for their useless monthly subscription.

  It was weird. Not that she didn’t have a Facebook profile or a car or an old nineteen-hundred-dollar debt that Citibank had sued her to collect, but that she didn’t have any of it. On paper, Marin Strasser was basically a ghost. Under-the-table living was certainly possible, but it was hard in the modern world.

  Now, I tapped my fingers lightly on the keyboard without typing anything for a few seconds. Marin had stolen a big chunk of change from my client, so obviously she wasn’t on the straight and narrow. I could see how Arthur would be an easy mark: he was wealthy, lonely, and a little bit naive. But what kind of mark were we talking about, and why? I pictured the way she’d walked through clothing stores, idly trailing her fingers across the merchandise almost compulsively.

  Maybe she was just crazy, or maybe there was way more to her than it seemed.

  * * *

  I called Arthur and asked if I could stop by to look through Marin’s possessions. He said yes and gave me instructions on how to find his spare key, since he was currently out securing cash for me. I imagined that this meant pawning a coin collection or something. But I headed over to his house around ten, found the key hidden under one of those fake plastic rocks that fooled no one, and went inside.

  The house had been put back together slightly, although yesterday’s sad soup meal remained on the kitchen counter. I did a quick search of the junk drawer: matches, batteries, expired coupons. I moved on: three bedrooms, one of which was used as an office; two bathrooms; first-floor laundry; back balcony with great views of the ravine, which seemed to glow in the midmorning sunlight. The decor throughout the place was outdated like the living room: heavy lacquer dressers and headboard in the bedroom, white carpet, a desk chair in the office with that nineties pattern that looked like paint swatches.

  It was hard to picture Marin, alleged purveyor of sophisticated decor for your home, living in this space. And not just because of the ugly upholstery in the office, which appeared to be Arthur’s domain. There weren’t many signs of her anywhere, honestly. Guest room: an empty Samsonite suitcase labeled with her name and Arthur’s address. Bathroom: a pink electric toothbrush and a makeup bag full of Dior.
Bedroom: a handful of chick-lit titles on her half of the headboard, a hundred bucks in twenties folded up on her nightstand, a stack of small slips of paper in the nightstand drawer, plus a small bag of weed, a bottle of body lotion, and a vibrator. I opened the baggie and sniffed—cheap stuff, nothing to get excited about. The paper slips were curious though: printed with QR codes and random strings of letters and numbers. I shuffled through them, unable to discern any meaning. They were printed on thermal paper, like from a fax machine, and most of them had been torn off of another slip or a roll. I pocketed one of them and I moved on to the closet. It was split evenly between Marin’s and Arthur’s clothes. She had a lot of dresses like the one she’d been wearing when I saw her last: dark-colored, fitted, size four. Shoes, size eight. Handbags, expensive and numerous. I felt through a bunch of them but found nothing except loose change and forgotten sticks of gum.

  I paused to check my phone for messages and saw there was only a new text from Catherine. Just three dots.

  …

  Since she’d never had a cell phone before, I figured she was still learning. But it wasn’t my job to educate my ex-whatever on the nuances of texting. She’d first messaged me from the new number with the same message she probably sent to everyone she’d ever met—Hey! It’s Cat. I joined the twenty-first century xx. I didn’t respond. A few weeks after that, she started with a full-on campaign to get me to text her back. I miss you. Why are you ignoring me? Are you dead? If you’re dead I’ll REALLY miss you.

  I still didn’t go for it. I tried to tell myself I’d learned that lesson already, that Catherine never meant anything she said. Eventually, she stopped using words, just went for the dots. Perhaps supposed to intrigue me into breaking my resolution not to engage with her, no matter how insistent she became. I knew I should just block the number, but I also knew I’d never do that. Not in a million years.

  I went back to my search. I was feeling like a perv, rooting through a dresser drawer full of sexy underthings when I finally found something: a cedar cigar box, wrapped in a web of nylons. I sat down cross-legged on the floor and considered its secrets. A passport, for STRASSER, MARIN KENNEDY, which contained no stamps, and an ugly silver locket wrapped in an Hermès scarf.