“Yes,” says Amory. He smiles and shrugs. “Working a case. Nothing to do with her.”
Ricardo smiles back and heads off. Amory takes one break to get a sandwich around the corner, and brings it back to eat while he finishes up. There aren’t too many days of footage that he needs to see, and some of those, unfortunately, have already been taped over.
The pastrami is good, but what he sees on the sixth tape is even better.
For his appointment with Natalie, Amory arrives at the bookstore and finds it empty except for an elderly woman manning the cash register, and a guy who looks like a college student carrying boxes to the second floor. He wanders around, glancing at covers and then through the wide window to the street.
“May I help you?” asks the woman behind the counter, who is feeling anxious about this man, who has been lurking around the store but is clearly not interested in books.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m meeting someone here. While I’m waiting, do you have the latest Alan Furst?”
She brightens. “Oh, yes! And let me tell you, it is a doozy! It’s right there on the table of new releases.”
Amory buys a copy, continuing to check the window. The primary skill of a good private investigator is patience, and on an average day he has plenty of it. Today is another story. He has a tingling in his fingertips as though his fingers know something his brain does not, and in his experience, this has never failed to mean he is on the brink of finding something significant. At long last, Natalie Delevan appears, her hair shiny and gently curled, her shoes eccentric, her teeth and skin perfect.
Amory remembers her slightly from their teenage years, as a girl from an old-money family at whose house kids congregated. He had thought she was on the curvy side but now she is slender, overly so.
“This is so weird,” she says, flashing him a smile. She is wearing only a slick of lipgloss. No mascara, no blush.
“It is,” Amory agrees. “I remember you. I think I came to a party in your basement when we were about fourteen?”
“Probably. Everyone did at one time or another,” she says.
“So what would make you the most comfortable? We can walk and talk, or get a table somewhere if you’re hungry?”
“I’m always hungry,” she laughs. “But let’s walk. It’s a nice day for once. And I’ll be honest—I’ve never been interrogated before, and I’m sort of nervous.”
“Oh, this is not an interrogation, not at all. I just want to ask a few questions as I wrap things up on the Wilson Crowe case. If I were interrogating you, you’d be in my special chair.”
Natalie looks alarmed.
“I’m kidding!” says Amory. “I don’t actually interrogate anyone—that’s the cops’ job, not mine.”
“So what do you do? Go around pawing through people’s trash?”
“Actually, yes. Trash is the unsung hero of the investigation world.”
“What will you do when everything’s digital, and nobody writes anything down anymore?”
“Shoot myself.”
“Funny.”
“I just have a couple questions. Let me get them out of the way, and then I’ll take you to lunch?”
“Maybe,” says Natalie.
“You’ve been friends with Caroline a long time?”
“Since preschool.”
“Would you—and excuse the nosiness, it’s just the job—would you say you’re close? By that I mean, does she share things with you?”
Natalie snorts and looks away. “Caroline Crowe?”
Amory half-smiles.
“She doesn’t share anything with anybody.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I’m not her shrink.”
“Does she have a shrink?”
“Everybody has a shrink, Amory. You must not be very good at your job. But actually, I’m not sure she’s seeing anybody. It’s the kind of thing she wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Ah.”
“Right. Ah.”
“How has she been lately, would you say?”
“Her brother just died. So…not so hot.”
“She’s pretty broken up about it?”
“Of course.”
They walk past a group of tourists arguing about where to have lunch. Amory is quiet, hoping that Natalie will feel uncomfortable with the silence and blurt out something she didn’t intend to blurt out.
But Natalie says nothing.
“Answer me this. How in the world can you walk so fast in those heels? They’ve gotta be, what, four inches at least?”
Natalie laughs. “Practice, you dumbass.”
“Well, they look good, if I’m allowed to say that. Very good, in fact.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll have lunch with you. If you keep going on like that. And be more specific, please.”
Amory grins at her. They go in the next restaurant they come to, a burger joint on Lexington that is empty except for some young men at the bar having their first beers of the day. Amory and Natalie order beers too, and burgers. Natalie puts her elbows on the table, rests her chin on her hands, and looks into Amory’s greenish eyes with the golden flecks.
“Just let me get the rest of the questions out of the way, and then I can get back to talking about your legs. What do you say?”
“Ask away, Sam Spade.”
“Okay. You’ve known the Crowes a long time?”
“Ages.”
“How did Caroline and Wilson get along?”
“Jumping right in, aren’t you?”
“Is that a tough question?”
“Not saying that. I’m not used to being peppered with questions by an actual investigator, that’s all.”
“No pressure, Natalie. I’m just asking to get a little background.”
She wiggles a little, then sits up straight. “Okay, let’s see. Yeah. Way back, when we were kids? They got along like gangbusters. Then there was a rough patch. Look, I don’t know, I’m not the Crowe family historian.”
Amory laughs. “You’re not on the stand, Miss Delevan. Just sitting in this crappy burger joint with an admirer, trading a little gossip. That’s all. I’m just trying to understand the…the family environment, you could say.”
“Ha! Good luck with that. That’s like penetrating the mysteries of the Sphinx.”
Amory laughs again, looking into Natalie’s eyes and holding her gaze just a little longer than necessary. “How about before Wilson died? How was Caroline doing then?”
Natalie pauses. She thinks he’s quite adorable. And she can’t quite decide what to say and what not to say. Should she tell him that Caroline and Wilson were close, even super close…so close that some people thought they might be actually doing it? Or about the way they fought to get Gordon’s attention, how it was so over the top sometimes it got scary?
Should she tell him about Katie Luxton seeing Caroline in a black wig, looking like she had gained a lot of weight?
“Actually,” says Natalie, “why don’t you talk about my legs first. And don’t feel you have to limit yourself to legs, either. All compliments will be entertained equally.”
It might be more than an afternoon’s work, thinks Amory, allowing his knee to brush against Natalie’s as he reaches for his beer, but I’m in no hurry. She definitely has something to tell me.
He thinks: I am patient. I will be right here waiting when she is ready to talk.
62
In an effort to miss Gordon, Amory comes to the Crowe apartment in the morning, hoping to see Lillian instead.
“Amory, darling,” she says, coming into the foyer as he steps out of the elevator. She takes his hands and kisses him on both cheeks. “I’d ask Marecita to make you a drink, but I’m afraid she’s not here. Do you know if Gordon fired her?”
Amory is confused until he catches a whiff of alcohol. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him,” he says, with a quick smile. “I’m so sorry about Wilson,” he says, squeezing her hands since she has not let him go.
<
br /> “Just awful,” whispers Lillian. Tears start to spill down her cheeks and Amory looks away. “What can I do for you, dear boy?” she says, though in that particular instant she has no clear idea of who he is.
“Well, you know Gordon has hired me to…to be another set of eyes, on your son’s case. I’m trying to get as much background as possible, since I didn’t know Wilson at all. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions? Please say no if it feels like too much—I’ll understand, Mrs. Crowe.”
“Questions?”
“Just some of his history? You never know what little inconsequential thing turns out to make a difference.” He smiles warmly at her.
“Anything I can do,” she says, waving a hand like the queen in a parade.
“He was a popular guy, wasn’t he? Lots of friends?”
“Oh yes,” says Lillian. “When he was still living here, it was like Grand Central some nights, with all the people in and out.”
“And those relationships—they were amicable, for the most part? He got along well with people?”
“I can tell you didn’t know him. He was such a fun-loving boy! Not moody like his sister can be.”
Amory nods. “And his sister…how was that? They get along all right?” He’s holding his breath.
“Well,” says Lillian, “sometimes I thought they got along a little too well. I tried to instill in them…you can’t just go around doing any old thing you like whenever you feel like it. There are…social standards, as I’m sure you understand. And then of course….”
Amory watches Lillian’s attention drift away. She’s looking up at a corner of the ceiling, her brow suddenly furrows. “Is that a spot on the wallpaper? Just up there, look!”
Amory glances up and sees nothing. “You were saying, about Wilson and Caroline?”
“Sometimes they fought like wild beasts. And I don’t mind telling you that Gordon egged them on most dreadfully. I used to tell him that he acted as though his children were gladiators being thrown into the Coliseum to fight for his entertainment, only it was not amusing at all. Don’t think for one second he ever listened to me, however. All right then,” she adds, her face brightening artificially. “I must be going. Thank you so much for coming by, it was delightful to see you.”
Amory is almost sure she has forgotten who he is and what they were just talking about.
“If it’s no trouble, I’d like to see Wilson’s room. Just take a quick look around, in the off chance…”
Lillian is waving her hand in the air. “Down that way,” she says, moving in the opposite direction. “It’s Amory Porter, isn’t it. Lovely family. Wilson’s bedroom on the left. He was last here, oh, just before Christmas. Don’t think you’ll find much, but I don’t know what it is you’re looking for. No matter. It is nice to see you, Amory. Please give your mother my love.”
“I will,” says Amory, knowing his mother would want to spit on the Crowes after the way Gordon treated her husband.
Lillian drifts out of sight without saying goodbye.
Amory moves quickly down the opposite corridor and goes into the room on the right, not the left. The bedroom is not quite as antiseptic as a hotel room, but close. The bedroom of a woman on her guard. He finds a number of bags and several backpacks, and goes through them carefully, not finding what he was looking for. A laptop sitting closed on Caroline’s desk, a sharp and unembellished Knoll. He raises the lid of the computer but takes a moment to look around the room, sensing her, noticing how her bed is dressed, the view, the absence of photographs, mementos, tchotchkes.
He turns back to the computer, grateful and surprised to see that not only is she logged in, she has not erased her history. For the next hour, keeping a sharp ear out though he has no escape route, no way to avoid the awkwardness if she comes in and finds him there, Amory combs through everything Caroline has looked at online for the last three months. And then he goes back further.
63
Caroline
Dinner with Amory tonight. Last thing I want to do but I’m not seeing any way out of it. I spend some time on my makeup and picking out the right clothes, which is not easy since he insisted on making a reservation someplace downtown, which is an entirely different prospect, sartorially speaking, than my Upper East Side neighborhood. Plus half my clothes don’t fit because I’m experiencing a certain thickening through the middle that is going to turn into a real problem before long. But one crisis at a time here, all right?
Would an innocent person dress differently from a guilty one? I bet those jury consultants know a thing or two about that, but once again I’m stuck without a way to do research and not leave a trail.
Still no sign of the bracelet. Gordon gave it to me in Jamaica, years ago; for some reason I always felt as though it was a tangible badge of his love for me, far more than any of the nice jewelry he’s given me over the years. I have worn it for ages and it has never fallen off even once. Its absence makes me jittery, which I don’t think I need to tell you is not a good direction for me.
I manage to slip out without seeing Gordon or Mummy. Thank God for small favors.
There is no possibility that Amory has asked me to dinner because he suspects something. That is what I am telling myself. I don’t mean to sound boastful, but I think he asked me out because he’s interested in me that way, and this business with Wilson is as good an excuse as any to try to work his magic on me.
I can’t say if Amory Porter has magic. I would say, if I had to guess, that there is definite magical potential. A certain look in his eyes that gives me the idea he could be a shelter in the tempest, a place of warmth I haven’t ever had the luck to experience. But for all the reasons I tried to explain after the Morton situation, and other reasons I’m not in any mood to go into—this is not something I can explore. I am determined not to allow pretty hair or mirthful glances to trick me into dropping my guard.
One thing on which we can all agree: my guard is not something to be trifled with.
“Good evening, Miss Caroline,” says Ricardo as I come into the lobby.
“Hi, Ricardo. How come you’re on tonight? Night guy out again?”
“Wife’s got pneumonia.”
“Aw, sorry to hear that.”
He gives me the smile that always makes me feel so taken care of. I hope Ricardo stays at 744 for as long as I live.
A cab pulls up and Amory gets out.
“Oh! He’s here for me,” I say to Ricardo, breezing through the door. Amory takes my arm and guides me to the open door of the cab, and I don’t feel patronized, the way some of my more feminist friends might; inside I’m feeling wobbly, so I appreciate the steady hand.
Amory’s wearing the same suit he had on at Gordon’s party, and it looks just as good. Something about his courtly manners, the good suit, and “private investigator” don’t go together. I feel wary as I slide into the cab and we pull away.
We’re sailing down Park Avenue, the glittery lights whizzing by and flashing on Amory’s face. I’m sitting up against the door, trying to prevent any accidental touching, but I’m afraid I might look prissy so I move over just a little. Well, okay, if you’re going to be such a stickler—I want to get closer. Just to see how that feels. I let my leg brush up against his, in the age-old accidentally-on-purpose way, and the contact increases my wobbles and gets me thinking about doing things with him that involve that suit lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.
With magnificent effort, I drag my attention away. I absolutely cannot, at this point, afford such a risk.
On the ride downtown we barely speak and I am grateful for that. We look out at store windows and people walking along the sidewalk. Not a single remarkable thing happens, which is almost but not quite unusual in New York; most of the time you’d at least see someone dressed as a cowboy, or a person standing on the corner crying, something.
The restaurant is almost entirely dark inside, with sharp pools of colored light on each table, making the place lo
ok like a sea of bright polka dots. I would not call it attractive.
“Hope you don’t mind coming down here,” says Amory, after ordering drinks at the bar because our table isn’t ready.
I shrug. I do mind, but it’s not like I’m in control of this particular stretch of road.
“So, how about if I get the business part out of the way right off?” he says, and yep, the hair flops over one eye and he’s giving me a smile that would charm the chilliest of women.
“Whatever you want.” I open the menu. “Any way I can help, I want to,” I add.
“Good. So, what can you tell me about Donny Aldritch?”
Oh, this is a promising development.
“Mm, not a lot. Before the…uh, situation with Rebecca, Donny and Wilson were best friends, as I’m sure you already know. I think they maybe started a business together? Or had some…some kind of scheme? I don’t remember exactly.” I pause. Of course I want Amory to run off after Donny, if there’s any suspicion of foul play, as they say on TV. But I don’t want to overplay this either. It’s delicate.
“Do you think they were especially close, before what happened with Rebecca? Or were they, I don’t know, the sort of friends who watched sports on TV together, maybe went to bars…but not really bosom buddies?”
I start to speak and then shut my mouth. I say to Amory, my eyes wide, “I—I almost said you should ask Wilson.” I gulp some water, and just like that, I almost lose my shit right there at the bar.
There is no asking Wilson. To state the obvious.
It’s unclear how this truth has escaped me the last few days—that I have done this thing I cannot take back. It is real. And I can’t undo it.
Amory puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a brief squeeze. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish there were something more comforting for me to say, but that’s all I’ve got.”
I’m nodding and shaking my head, confused, using everything I’ve got to keep from crying.
You Made Your Bed: A Novel Page 23