One Small Sacrifice

by Hilary Davidson

  “Not unless he spent his whole class at NYU calling his girlfriend. That’s the one time slot he has a rock-solid alibi for. I called the registrar when we were on our way back from Traynor’s place. He really was teaching from six until ten that night.”

  “Who would take a four-hour class on a Friday night?”

  “Plenty of people, apparently,” Sheryn said. “It filled up an hour after they announced it, and it had a wait list. It’s an intensive course in field photography. Apparently the famous war photographer has die-hard fans.”

  “Ooo-kay.” Rafael grimaced. “I know people think Los Angeles is la-la land, but New York is for weirdos.”

  “Remind me again why you transferred here?”

  “I never said.”

  For a moment, it had seemed like they had some slight rapport, but suddenly it felt like having a door slammed in her face. That was another thing that bothered Sheryn about her new partner: she knew nothing about Rafael’s personal life. He wore a wedding ring but never referred to his homelife. Wife? Kids? He was silent on the subject. She’d taken for granted the intimacy she’d had with her old partner, Sandy; she could’ve told you the birth dates of his kids, and she’d seen up close how his wife obsessively decorated their shoebox-sized Staten Island house for holidays large and small.

  “Whatever. Take a look at Emily Teare’s call log. I’m copying you on it.” She pressed a few keys and sent him the file.

  Rafael scanned his own screen. “We have no idea who was ringing her phone off the hook?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re not supposed to be able to buy a burner phone without ID,” Rafael groused.

  “Yet criminals get around that requirement all the time.”

  “Whoever called really wanted to talk with Emily,” Rafael said. “The first call was at six-oh-two p.m. It was two minutes long, so it looks like they had a conversation. After that, all the calls go to voice mail.”

  “But nobody left a message.” Sheryn scanned the pages. “There’s an interesting pattern to the calls. Look at this. There’s a call from the burner cell every ten to fifteen minutes from six-oh-two until ten sixteen. After that, the calls stop cold turkey.”

  “And as far as we can tell, Friday night was the last time anyone saw Emily.”

  “What happened at ten seventeen that night—that’s what I need to know,” Sheryn said. She clicked through the pages on her screen again. “What do you know? That same burner cell called her on Friday night exactly a week earlier, six-oh-four p.m. And the week before that, Friday at six p.m.”

  “Someone’s being lazy, not swapping out their burner phone,” Rafael said. “Any smart criminal knows you need to ditch it and get a new one. Even a week is lame.”

  “What are the odds Emily Teare was talking to a criminal on the regular?” Sheryn asked. “Believe me, I looked into her background last year. Aside from a couple traffic infractions when she was in school, her record’s clean.”

  “Figure of speech,” Rafael said. “To me, it looks more like a booty call.”

  Sheryn did a double take. “I don’t think so.”

  “What did the super say? Every Friday night, Emily left the building at the same time for a run. And, maybe not so coincidentally, that’s the night her boyfriend is out teaching.”

  “And . . . ?”

  Rafael gave her a disbelieving look. “Really now. Let’s say the lady’s coming home all hot and sweaty and disheveled. Who’s going to question that if she’s been out running around Central Park?”

  Sheryn frowned. Rafael’s theory had a straightforward logic to it. Maybe Emily Teare was involved with another man, and this drama was spun out of age-old human jealousy. Only Sheryn’s gut wasn’t buying it. Emily Teare had been involved with Alex Traynor for years; now that they were engaged, she was suddenly stepping out on him? Nope. Try again. “We need to look further back with the phone records. See if Dr. Teare’s been getting a regular call after six o’clock on Friday evening.”

  “Find out how long this booty call has been going on.”

  “I told you I don’t get the feeling that’s the situation here.”

  Rafael shrugged. “Maybe it was more than just a hookup. Maybe Emily was kicking Alex to the curb for this new guy. Maybe he flipped his shit when he discovered Emily was leaving him.”

  Sheryn could feel her brow furrowing. Rafael’s scenario didn’t sit well with her, yet she couldn’t write it off completely. It didn’t contradict the facts of the case that they had; it only conflicted with her view of Emily. To Sheryn, the doctor seemed dutiful and loyal to a fault. If she’d lied to the police—and Sheryn knew she had—it had been out of misplaced devotion. How could she square that with the notion that this same woman was cheating on her lover?

  “Hey, you’re the one who said this guy was impulsive,” Rafael went on. “Maybe he did go into a fugue state and kill her.”

  CHAPTER 14

  ALEX

  When Alex walked into his building, Detective Sterling’s voice was echoing through his head. You know, Mr. Traynor, I’m surprised you still live here, in this building. After what happened with your former girlfriend, I mean.

  He tried to shake it off, but he couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t shake off the guilt. I’m still here because I deserve to be reminded of Cori every day, he thought. I’m still here because I don’t deserve to move on. I never will.

  Instead of going to the wreckage of his own apartment, he knocked on the door labeled 5D. He heard a couple of barks from inside, just before Mrs. DiGregorio opened up.

  “Thanks so much for taking care of Sid,” Alex said. “You’re the best.”

  “I love having him around,” she answered. “He’s like the grandson I never had.”

  Mrs. DiGregorio’s face crinkled when she smiled. As far as Alex knew, she was somewhere between seventy and eighty, though she hadn’t aged in all the years he’d lived in the building. Her Italian-born husband had died around the time Alex had moved in; Mrs. DiGregorio herself was a lifelong New Yorker who’d grown up in Williamsburg when it was still predominantly Jewish and who’d retained the distinctive accent of her home borough. She was one of the most outgoing, active people Alex knew. She was hard of hearing, but otherwise tremendously fit.

  “I was going to take him for a walk,” Alex said. “You know how he loves the dog run at DeWitt Clinton. Do you need anything while I’m out?”

  “No, dear, I’m fine. Any word yet about Emily?”

  He shook his head. Before he’d gone to the police station, he’d knocked on her door, asking her to babysit Sid, as he often did. He didn’t want his neighbor asking too many questions, but he couldn’t pretend there wasn’t a problem.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Mrs. DiGregorio said. “She takes care of everyone else, so she can definitely fend for herself. I hope I didn’t put my hoof in my mouth, telling the police about that oddball girl from last night.”

  “You didn’t,” Alex said. “The bad thing was that I couldn’t really tell them who that girl was. I don’t know if they believe me.”

  “I believe you. You looked at her like she was an alien.”

  “She might be one. She beamed into my apartment and then vanished.”

  “She introduced herself as a friend of Emily’s, but I don’t buy it,” Mrs. DiGregorio said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Emily’s a serious person. Solid. Grounded. She likes other serious people. That woman didn’t fit the bill.”

  She has a point, Alex thought as he grabbed Sid’s red leash from his apartment and took the dog out to the park. But he didn’t doubt that Diana knew Emily, even if they weren’t friends. There was only one other thing he was certain of: Diana didn’t know where Emily was any more than he did himself.

  On his way back, his mind was still dwelling on his neighbor’s words. Emily was great at taking care of other people, but he didn’t think there was any correlation with how she took
care of herself. In his mind, it was actually the opposite: people who were truly gifted at taking care of themselves rarely invested that effort in others. He put himself in that category: he’d done a solid job of watching his own back whenever he’d gone into a war zone, but he’d never tried to watch anyone else’s. It was only now, as he looked back, that he saw how selfish he’d been. If he ever needed more evidence of that, all he had to do was think of Maclean. Reflexively he put his hand in his pocket, reaching for the lighter, before remembering it was gone.

  When he got upstairs, he found he’d left his door unlocked. Cold fingers of dread ran down the back of his neck. Who was waiting inside now? Before Emily had moved in, Alex’s place had been a crash pad for his friends. He used to come home and find a despondent yet droll Will leafing through his books. Sometimes Cori would be there, making herself tea in his kitchen while she smoked a joint. That had all ended after Cori died and Will moved out of the building.

  There was no one inside the apartment, unless Cori’s ghost counted as an occupant. Alex bent down to remove Sid’s red leash. The dog nuzzled against his hand, then took off for the couch, leaping a little awkwardly but landing solidly in his spot. Part of Alex felt envious. If only he could let go of everything and relax. There was a tickle at the back of his skull, reminding him that there was an easy solution for what ailed him. Well, easy in a short-term way; if you factored the long-term cycle of addiction and rehab and relapse, the cost was sky high. More than that, he didn’t want to let go. What the police said about Emily tugged at his conscience. They could be wrong, of course, misguided or even malicious, trying to trip him up. It wouldn’t be the first time. But what if Emily really was missing?

  At the dog run, Alex had texted Emily’s brother. Matthew lived in San Francisco, and he claimed he hadn’t heard from his sister in a couple of weeks. Sure, Matthew could’ve been lying, but why would he? Alex had met him only twice, once in New York and the other time in San Francisco. He was tall and athletic, like Emily, but his face was sunny and open. He had none of his sister’s frantic energy or moody intensity. So what did that leave? Emily could’ve holed up at a hotel, but she wasn’t a woman who wasted money like that. He knew she felt guilty if she bought herself anything more extravagant than a pair of new running shoes.

  What could he do for her now? The police would check Emily’s bank account and credit cards. Her laptop wasn’t in the apartment, but even if it had been, Alex didn’t know what passwords she used. Their money was in separate accounts, so there was no way to check up on her. Or was there? He could call the credit card companies; surely he knew enough about Emily to gain some kind of access, some hint of what she was up to?

  He was lost in thought as Sid bumped up against his leg, wagging his stubby tail. “After all that exercise, I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” he asked the dog. Sid just smiled and wagged. How charming did you have to be to convince a cadre of US Special Forces to take you in on a battlefield? Sid had charisma to burn.

  “You ever think about the soldier who adopted you?” Alex asked the dog. “His name was Elias Maclean. Do you remember him at all?”

  Sid gave him a gentle head butt in response, followed by an endearing smile and tilt of his head.

  “He rescued you,” Alex said. “You’re alive because of him. That’s something we have in common. I’m only alive because of him too.”

  Sid barked and wagged his stub of a tail. What it meant wasn’t clear, but Alex took it as agreement. He went into the kitchen, filled one bowl with kibble, and refreshed the water bowl. Sid went straight for the kibble and chowed down. Then, as if remembering his manners, he looked up, gave Alex a contented little yip of approval, and went back to eating.

  Alex opened the kitchen cabinet where he kept the brown vial and was relieved to find it there. That meant the police hadn’t completely taken the place apart, at least not yet. He put the bottle in his pocket and sorted through the rest of his stash. Most of it was legal, and while the cops might raise an eyebrow at velvet bean or reishi mushrooms or kava kava, those substances wouldn’t get him arrested. He worried about the kratom, which was illegal in some states and seemed to be on the thin edge of legal in New York. It had to go, along with his stash of weed. He gave Sid a gentle pat and headed out again. Now that the cops were back at his door, he had to be ready for anything.

  CHAPTER 15

  SHERYN

  The fact that some functionary had confirmed that Alex Traynor taught a course at NYU on Friday nights didn’t carry much weight with Sheryn. She’d mocked her partner when he’d said it was crazy, a class that night from six until ten. It was New York, anything was possible at any time of day or night, and she was going to stand by that. Privately, though, she had doubts. When she left the precinct, she said good night, but she wasn’t off the job. She took the West Side Highway south, grateful not to be fighting her way out of the city at rush hour. It took her longer to find a parking spot than it did to get there. Plenty of cops she knew would’ve double-parked, but that had never been her style.

  Sheryn operated on the theory she got more out of a source by meeting in person than over the phone, but there were exceptions. “I don’t understand the problem,” the registrar told her. “We discussed this information over the phone. Alex Traynor is teaching a special workshop in advanced field photography every Friday night. He started in September.”

  “I need a list of the students who take it,” Sheryn said.

  The registrar was a tall, slender column of a woman with heavily powdered white skin that made her look like she was channeling an eighteenth-century aristocrat. She gazed at Sheryn through her reading glasses. “Do you have a warrant for that?”

  “I don’t, but I can get one.”

  “Well, why don’t you do that, then?”

  Sheryn sighed. “Where does the class meet each week?”

  “There’s no assigned classroom. Alex didn’t want one.”

  “That sounds a little sketchy.”

  “It’s a workshop in field photography, run by a superstar photographer,” the registrar pointed out. “Alex runs that class so that each week they meet, um, in the wild, let’s say. It’s supposed to be very exciting.”

  “How nice,” Sheryn drawled sarcastically. “Look, do you see my problem here? Mr. Traynor told me about the class as his alibi, but if the class consists of him out roaming around at large . . . well, that’s not much of an alibi. You get that, right?”

  The registrar frowned. “But why does he need an alibi?”

  “His girlfriend is missing.”

  “Emily?” The registrar’s face creased in concern.

  “You know her?”

  “Oh, no, I’ve never met her. I just . . . I know Alex often talks about her. In class, I mean.”

  Sheryn raised her eyebrows. “You know someone who’s taking the class?”

  There was a hot flush under the registrar’s alabaster skin. She was a little too accustomed to dealing with students; she liked being the authority figure.

  “How about this,” Sheryn continued. “Let me talk to your friend. If what I hear checks out, that’ll really help Mr. Traynor’s alibi.”

  The registrar nodded and left to make a phone call. Sheryn wondered if she should feel bad. The way she was playing it, she was the good cop who was trying to help Alex Traynor out. If she’d told the registrar the truth, she’d have gotten nowhere. It was a deception for a good cause, and she was okay with that. Still, something needled her under her skin. Her kids were at an age where they had her pretty well figured out. Her son was already a teenager, and he was an easy kid who seemed to pick up that the world was largely made up of shades of gray. Her daughter was the opposite, a fierce, openhearted girl who saw the world in stark black and white. She knew her daughter wouldn’t be impressed if she could see her at that moment. A lie is a lie, Mama. Her baby girl was an absolutist, and Sheryn wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  When the registrar ca
me back, she directed Sheryn to the Institute of French Studies, just north of Washington Square Park on an alley-like side street that bisected only that block. When she asked for Agathe Ngeze at the desk, the receptionist stood and shook her hand. “I am Agathe,” she said, her French-accented voice smooth as old scotch. “My friend told me you would come.”

  Sheryn stared at her. Whatever she’d been expecting, this woman wasn’t it. She was in her fifties, which made her about thirty years older than the average NYU student, Sheryn figured. Her close-cropped afro was graying, and while her movements were graceful, they were slow, as if she were performing a water ballet.

  “You’re taking Alex Traynor’s field photography class?” Sheryn didn’t mean to sound skeptical, but that’s how she sounded, even to her own ears.

  Agathe Ngeze didn’t seem fazed. “Yes, it was an honor to be accepted. Alex has a rigorous application process. Shall we sit down?” She led Sheryn to a small, empty room across the hall. Her steps didn’t appear to be easy. When she offered her coffee or tea, Sheryn turned her down.

  “You’re a photographer on the side?” Sheryn asked.

  “No, but I always dreamed of being one.” She smiled. “Alex says that, to be a good photographer, one must be a faithful witness. I have always been that.”

  Sheryn wasn’t often stuck for words, but this tall, elegant woman—who spoke with a reverence of Alex Traynor—left her nonplussed. “The registrar told me it was an advanced class, so I just assumed . . . I figured you had to have been taking pictures for a while.”

  “Oh, I have, but not good pictures. Not framed well, not artistic. But I took them so that I would never forget what I saw. I took them so that I could share what I have lived, especially with those who do not want to believe.”

  “I know Alex Traynor made a name for himself as a war photographer . . .”

  “And I am from a war zone,” Agathe said. “I grew up in Rwanda.”

  Sheryn could only nod at the weight of her words; they were heavy, loaded with significance. She could remember news about Rwanda from when she was in college, the atrocities that were committed there. I’m sorry wasn’t an appropriate response when a person told you where she’s from, Sheryn knew; she had to choke back the words. “Can you tell me about Mr. Traynor’s class?” she asked instead. “I heard that you go out into the field. Is he with you while you do that?”