by Kate White
We sign off and I quickly go to her email, opening the file. My fingers, I notice, are trembling slightly. Besides the fact that the microfilmed pages make me feel like I’m back in the twentieth century, they’re tough to read this way. I squint, holding the phone closer to the window, and quickly scan the articles until finally I see the line I’m hunting for.
“According to Jaycee’s mother, Audrey Long, her daughter was abducted sometime Wednesday morning, possibly around eight-thirty A.M.”
Liar, I think. Because Jaycee had already been dead for hours.
25
I scroll back to the first couple of articles, looking for what was said about the cause of death. According to the coroner’s report, Jaycee died as a result of “blunt force trauma to the head,” and she’d been dead several days by the time the body was found.
From there I slowly read through the dozen or so articles and put together a timeline.
Audrey was a cocktail waitress back then, working nights while her own mother babysat for Jaycee at the house. She told reporters—and obviously the police, as well—that when she left for work Tuesday night, Jaycee was in bed sleeping and was there when she returned. She checked in on her before going to sleep herself at around 2:00 A.M.
The next morning, Audrey claimed, she was roused from bed when a friend dropped by. She went to wake up Jaycee and discovered her daughter wasn’t in bed. But she wasn’t alarmed at the time, she said. Her boyfriend, Frank Wargo, sometimes stopped by and took the girl for a car ride in the morning while Audrey slept in, and she assumed that was the case. She even remembered, she said, hearing the front door open and close around eight-thirty and the sound of Jaycee’s voice.
When Wargo didn’t show up with Jaycee later that day, Audrey said she figured he was getting back at her for an argument they’d had but she didn’t want to involve the police and thought Wargo would eventually surface with her daughter. By Friday she was worried enough—so she claimed—that she finally went to the police to report the girl missing.
Pretty pathetic.
Wargo, it turned out, had a solid alibi—at least for the second half of Tuesday and Wednesday morning. He was a professional truck driver, and on the day I found the body he was driving through the state of Georgia, having departed, he told the police, around 4:30 P.M. on Tuesday. They tracked him down in Delaware on his way home late Friday. He claimed to have been pissed at Audrey, and that’s why he hadn’t told her about the trip.
Audrey had people to back up her alibi, too. The grandmother reported she’d checked on Jaycee several times on Tuesday evening before spending the night on her daughter’s couch, and that Audrey was sleeping when she left just after eight on Wednesday morning. And the friend supported the story about showing up at nine to find Audrey in bed.
Which left Audrey practically no window of time to kill her daughter and dispose of the body between when her mother left and her friend arrived.
But none of that really mattered because Jaycee was actually dead by then.
And that means the grandmother had also lied to the cops about checking on Jaycee. Hard to fathom a grandmother doing that, but perhaps she felt desperate to protect Audrey, or she was coerced by her.
I skim the articles, looking for any other references to Tuesday, the day Jaycee most likely was murdered, but there’s just one. Several Millerstown residents reported seeing Jaycee with her mother at a supermarket late Tuesday morning, at around eleven.
My mind scrambles, trying to gather all the pieces of information into a coherent pattern before they’re caught by the wind and lifted away. As the waiter sets down the pasta bowl in front of me, I fish out a pen and pad from my purse and start doing the math.
Knowing what I now know about rigor, Jaycee died twelve to twenty-four hours before I found her, which means between midday on Tuesday and 3:00 A.M. Wednesday morning. It seems highly possible that Jaycee was murdered in the hours before Audrey went to work and Wargo left town.
So, which one of them delivered the blow or blows to Jaycee’s head? Audrey, in a rage over spilled apple juice or a bathroom accident or whining that wouldn’t cease? Or the boyfriend, who had that long haul to Georgia ahead of him and might have already popped a handful of uppers, fueling his fury over a tiny infraction by a toddler? If it was Wargo, Audrey had covered for him. If it was Audrey, she probably convinced Wargo to help her dispose of the body.
It’s clear the couple needed Jaycee’s disappearance to coincide with times when they each had as good an alibi as possible. By choosing Wednesday, Wargo had a built-in one—his trip down south, easily documented. Audrey’s situation was trickier, so she must have had to work on her mother.
And the friend’s visit on Wednesday could have been concocted for Audrey’s benefit. “Why don’t you come by in the morning” . . . “Oh, hey sorry, I was still sleeping, worked late last night. Lemme get my kid up, okay?”
I turn my attention to the bowl in front of me, which brims with linguine and clams the size of tiny buttons. So sublime looking, but my appetite has turned, and the pasta smells like I’ve pressed my face against the pilings of a dock. I can’t bear the thought of eating it.
I butter a piece of bread and take a bite, along with a few sips of sparkling water.
If my theory about the crime is right, I realize, Audrey and Wargo had been extremely lucky. The woods had been a stupid place to hide the body, perhaps chosen in a frenzied rush. If someone else had stumbled across Jaycee’s body on Wednesday and reported it that day, the police would have noted the rigor. That would have stripped them of their alibis.
Despite how dispassionate Corbet seemed when I pressed her about the potential impact of my statement, she must have been agog on the inside. My admission could change everything. And it’s clear to me now that there are two people in this world to whom I pose a terrible threat.
By this point the smell of clam brine is nearly making me gag, and I push the bowl even farther away. I signal for the check and apologize to the waiter for my hasty departure. Minutes later, I’m out on the street.
Dozens of cars and taxis shoot up First Avenue, but there’s little pedestrian traffic in this area. I glance around, just to be sure. Also, waiting for the light to change, I try Mulroney again. I’m confused why I haven’t heard from him. He’d acted so eager to hear what I might discover at WorkSpace.
When the Walk sign flashes, I dart across the avenue, heading farther east to the medical imaging facility, a good thirty minutes early.
“You’re sure you have no metal anywhere on you?” the technician asks when it’s finally time for the procedure and I’m sporting a medical gown. I sense I look checked-out to him.
“Yes, I’m certain,” I inform him.
I’ve never had an MRI before, but I’ve seen pictures and basically know what to expect: a huge white machine shaped like a donut, people behind a window speaking to me over an intercom as my body slides into the donut on what looks like a long tray. The noise is worse than I’d expected, but I don’t care. Somehow all the honking, thumping, knocking, blaring, buzzing, and foghorning force my brain to stop working.
Everything comes rushing back, though, once I’m on the street again later. I check my phone, which I’d had to store in a locker during the exam, and see there’s still no call from Mulroney. I do my best to tamp down my growing irritation. Maybe an urgent issue arose with another case, or he could be chasing down a lead for me. Still, I leave him another voice mail.
My phone pings with a text. It’s Hugh inquiring about the MRI. I almost sense he wishes there was something physically wrong with me, like he’d prefer “brain tumor” to “unbalanced” any day. I respond, saying thanks, the experience was uneventful and that I’ll know the results once the neurologist has had time to review the images.
You headed home now? he replies.
Gonna run some errands. Back in a couple of hours.
I do have errands to run. It’s been days since I bought
toiletries or hit the gym or had my nails done. But there’s something even more important on my list. I need to finally retrace my steps in the East Village, explore those streets in the hope that something I see will jog a memory, the way the rain on my trench coat did last night.
I shoot my hand up for a passing taxi and give the driver the address for Eastside Eats on Seventh Street.
After zigzagging east, the cabdriver hops on the FDR Drive at Seventy-First Street and zooms south. To my left the East River sparkles in the sun. On any other day, I’d stare out, mesmerized by the comings and goings of the tugs and barges, but I’m too wired to pay any attention.
When I exit the taxi outside Eastside Eats, I see through the glass window that the space inside is sparely decorated, but at the same time inviting. The tables have been constructed from planks of wood and are topped with glass jars full of herbs.
I step inside but don’t bother going to the counter, where half a dozen people are milling around. Nothing about this place feels familiar, and sitting with a coffee at one of the tables probably isn’t going to alter that.
Next, I wander farther east in the direction of Tompkins Square Park, which I apparently walked along last week. Years ago, the East Village was known for its counterculture, bohemian vibe, and it still gives off a hint of that, but less so now than when I roamed around here before or after my class at NYU. I pass a hip-looking shop selling clothes on consignment, a gallery, a patisserie, and several well-kept brownstone town houses. A group of art students saunters in front of me, carrying portfolios, the scent of their cigarettes wafting back toward me. Ahead of them is a cluster of Asian tourists snapping photos.
Why did I stop my sojourns down here? I can’t seem to remember. Just because my course ended didn’t mean I couldn’t come back. Maybe once I met Hugh, there seemed no reason to visit here. Hugh’s hardly a boho kind of guy.
When I reach the park, I make my way to the northern end at Tenth Street and flop onto a bench near two men playing chess. Did I come to this bench last week? Did I sit for a while as I’m doing now, with the warmth of the sun on my face? I have no clue.
Finally, I rise and retrace my steps south, but this time I go two blocks farther, turning on Fifth Street in search of Pairings, the other restaurant that showed up on my credit card statement.
It turns out to be a vegetarian place, rustic and charming, with brick walls painted white. There are about twenty wooden tables all nestled very close to one another and a bar/counter running across the back with a dozen stools. And like Eastside Eats, it’s totally and completely unfamiliar to me.
Maybe it would make sense to spend a little time at one of these places and give my memory a chance to adjust. The restaurant is clearly open for dinner already—I spot a man sitting solo at a table—so I enter the hushed interior.
A waitress looks up and smiles. She’s got short black hair, shaved along the sides, and a small silver hoop in her nose.
“I’m sorry, we don’t serve dinner until five thirty,” she says.
I glance over at the man sitting at the table and realize it’s actually a member of the waitstaff, folding black napkins.
She must read distress on my face because she adds, “We’re fully booked tonight, but there should be a seat at the bar if you want to come back right at five thirty. As you know, we serve a full menu there.”
So she remembers me.
“Yes, that’s right,” I say, accepting the card. “I loved the food. It’s . . . it’s a nice place to come on your own.”
“Isn’t it?” she says. “Feel free to bring a friend next time.”
I was alone, then, on Wednesday.
I exit and walk as fast as I can toward First Avenue, sweating in my coat, and flag down a cab headed uptown. I check my phone for the zillionth time, even though I’ve had the volume on max and would have heard a text or call from Mulroney come through. Nothing.
I place yet another call to him and this time the recording says, “The user’s mailbox is full. Please try again later.”
That makes no sense. An active private investigator would expect plenty of incoming calls and would keep his voice mail cleared to accept them. And even if he was crushed with work, he would at least respond to a paying client with a text.
What if this has all been a scam? And he provided a minimum amount of info simply to keep me happy? What if the blood-type results aren’t even true? Maybe he never really had the tissues tested.
That’d be rich, wouldn’t it? Personal finance “expert” falls prey to con artist.
But he can’t be a fraud. He’s a former New York City detective, and my gut told me that he was the real thing.
I rack my brain, turning up the few things I know about him. He mentioned that he lived on West Ninety-Seventh Street. And when we were at the diner, he admitted that he liked to drop by there in the early evenings and mull over his cases.
“Let me off at Ninety-Ninth and Broadway instead,” I call to the driver through the plexiglass barrier.
By the time we finally pull up at Broadway Diner, it’s growing dark outside and I’m ready to crawl out of my skin. I quickly pay the fare and charge across the sidewalk to the restaurant.
I pause once I’m inside, raking my gaze over the counter, as well as every table and booth. There’s no sign of Mulroney. I turn and retreat outside.
Standing on the sidewalk, I feel the oddest urge to cry. Not because I’ve possibly lost a thousand bucks or fallen prey to a scam. But because my quest to know the truth seems hopelessly stunted, and some of what I’ve learned so far might not even be true.
But surely, I chide myself, I’m overreacting. It’s only been eight hours since I first tried Mulroney and he might be doing a surveillance job that demands every ounce of his attention.
Except he said he would be on his cell.
I hurry the two blocks to Ninety-Seventh Street and wander between Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue. Hours ago, I was scared to be on the street alone, and now here I am casing an unfamiliar block at dusk. When I don’t have any luck, I try the other side of Broadway next, swiveling my head as I walk to West End Avenue and then toward Riverside Drive. It’s more deserted in this area, and a couple of times I turn to look behind me.
There’s no sign of Mulroney here either. Did I honestly think I’d simply bump into him as he was headed home?
I try him one more time and hear the same message about the mailbox being full. If he’s ridiculously tied up, why not have his partner cover for him?
His partner. He must have a phone as well. As I reverse course and hurry back toward Broadway, I pull up the company website and see that a second number is listed. Maybe it belongs to Williams. I pause just long enough to tap the hyperlink.
Two rings. And then a deep male voice.
“Jay Williams,” he answers without enthusiasm.
“Thank god,” I blurt out. “Jay, it’s Ally Linden, your client. We met at the diner.”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been trying to reach Kurt all day, but he hasn’t returned my calls. Do you have any idea why?”
“Where are you at the moment?” he asks. His voice sounds hoarse, constricted actually.
“I’m not far from Broadway Diner. I went there looking for him.”
“Go back to the diner and I’ll meet you there.”
“What’s going on?”
“Let’s talk in person, okay?” he says.
I feel like I’m getting the runaround yet again.
“Jay, I need to know what’s happening. Where’s your partner?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this,” he says. “But Kurt’s been killed. He died yesterday evening.”
The news nearly knocks me off my feet.
“No, it can’t be,” I say in stupid protest. “I spoke to him last night.”
“What time?” Williams says.
“Uh, around seven or so. He was in his car. Driving.”
“He died ar
ound eight or nine o’clock.”
I can hear Mulroney’s voice in my head, see his face as he sat across from me, scribbling notes with his big hands. How horribly sad.
“What happened to him?” I plead, the words catching in my throat. “Was it an accident?”
“No, that’s not it. Kurt was shot to death.”
26
A low, guttural sound escapes my mouth. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Please, it’s better if we do this in person,” Williams says. “I’m at Kurt’s apartment, and if you head to the diner, I can be there in under fifteen minutes.”
“Okay,” I mutter.
I drop the phone in my purse and tear up the street, nearly at a jog. A few minutes later I burst, breathless, through the door of the diner, into a cacophony of clanking plates and chattering voices. It’s nearly packed, but I find one free booth and slip into it. The smell is as overwhelming as the noise, a mix of sizzling ground chuck and burnt cheese.
In less time than I expect, Williams emerges through the doorway. Spotting me instantly, he hurries to the booth and slides in across from me. He’s in jeans and a black leather jacket, his face pinched in grief.
“I’m really sorry I wasn’t able to call all our clients with the news today,” he says. “I had to give the cops access to Kurt’s place today and then deal with the mess they left behind.”
“Where was he killed?”
“In his car. At the edge of a park about thirty miles out of the city in Westchester County, not far from White Plains. He’d been shot twice in the head, at close range.”
I try to prevent my mind from going there, but it does anyway. Mulroney’s face blown off. Blood sprayed all over the interior of the car.
“Does it have something to do with one of his cases?” I asked, chilled by the thought.
“The cops think not.”
A robbery, then? I wonder.
The waitress appears, ready to drop two plastic-coated menus on the table, but Williams holds up his hand.
“Coffee?” he asks me, his voice grim. “Or should we have an actual drink instead?”