"My friend that came with me to the club that night. She left before you guys started playing, and went home to meet this guy. Next day somebody found her dead in her own apartment. They haven't seen the guy since. The cops just wanted to know where I was."
"Jesus Fucking Christ! What happened?"
He was a pretty regular guy, off stage, when you got right down to it. She'd had a few beers. She wondered what to tell him, how to answer that question. "And then the same night my Dad had a heart attack—he lives in Portland, remember, I told you...And then he died the next day so here I am." She burst into cracked laughter. "Can you believe it, I'm a walking talking deathmonger. Ms. Bad News. Call me up and I'll make you dead. Fuck I'm wasted, man, but I wanted to see the gig. I...shit, Tim, I don't even know why I'm here, I just..." she looked at him, hating her own feeling of helplessness, fighting back the tears that welled in her eyes. This was the closest thing she had to a man in her life? A long-haired kid named Chain Saw? Why did she need a man in her life? Why did her father have to die like that?
"Damn, Lucy..." He looked around. The babes were hanging close but not too close, an eavesdropping trio of elegant young vultures. "You want a beer?" He grabbed one from an ice chest on the floor, twisted off the top, and handed it to her. "Hey, listen, I've got an idea. I just got a new pad up on Capitol Hill. Why don't you come up there and cool out a little, get some rest. You look beat, and it sounds like you've been through the mill. I know just the thing will help you relax." He grinned slyly. "I promise I won't fall asleep before you."
The state she was in, this sounded pretty good. She told him so, he said great, we'll be out of here in fifteen minutes, and then he got involved in another conversation, leaving Lucy in the lurch. She finished the beer and opened another, then found a wall to lean against. There were people in this room she might find interesting, had she the energy to think of things to talk about, but those things were not available to her at present. Nothing much was. She knew that what she really needed to do was go somewhere and sleep for a long time, but she couldn't seem to get herself unattached from the wall she leaned on, the beer she clutched and drank. These things held steady, offering reassurance, as did Tim Bob Chain Saw Yarber's offer of a bed at his new pad. Perhaps he would be in it, and he would hold her in his lovely young arms until the dawn broke, when she could fly home to New York, that quaint little town. Maybe they would fuck until she passed out, and it would be like rock n' roll, all body, no cranial interference.
Half an hour and a beer and a half later she found herself in a van driven by Zeno, headed up to Capitol Hill. The back was full of equipment. Ahead of them the taillights of a limousine glimmered, leading the way. Chain Saw was in there; and as he had apologetically explained to her, with two record company guys, Chris Novoselic, and two women filling the seats, there wasn't room for her.
They made a few turns, meandering through residential backstreets of Capitol Hill, eventually pulling into a driveway on a quiet block of large, older houses. The limo emptied in front of them, and Lucy, having smoked one of Zeno's unfiltered Camel cigarettes—her first in six years—en route up the hill, stepped out of the van to follow, and had to grab the car door to keep from falling on her face. By the time she recovered from the dizzy tobacco rush, the people had disappeared. She went after them, wandering across the lawn, up the steps on to a porch, and into the house. The three story Victorian had been renovated inside and out, but the foyer, living room, and dining room were furnished with nothing but mattresses, second hand chairs, amplifiers, and sound equipment. The walls were bare. Where had all the people gone? Alone for a moment in the big empty hall, she tried deep breathing, to gain control of herself, but her throat was raw, her head spinning. She didn't have the strength to stop it. She heard voices from the back of the house, and went towards them.
They had gathered in the kitchen. Lucy slipped in. There were seven or eight people in the room, drinking beer, smoking, and carrying on. Lucy found a wall and leaned. After a moment Chain Saw noticed her and came over. "Hey Luce, how ya doin'?" he said.
"Pretty badly, man," she said softly. "I think I need to fall out...you said you had a place I could..."
"Yeah, right this way, Lucy," he said. He took her by the arm and led her out of the room, back down the hall, up some stairs. They went into a bedroom with a real bed, night tables, dressers, and clothes strewn everywhere—men's and women's, it looked like. She sat on the edge of the bed, and looked up at him. He had tied his hair back and wore a white shirt. He looked very nice, she thought. She attempted to smile seductively, but the make-up on her face felt like it had hardened into a mask, and smiling cracked it. She put a hand to her own face.
"Jesus," she said. "I'm a wreck."
He sat down next to her, and picked up a mirror from the night table. There was powder on it, divided into lines. "Here, why don't you try some of this?" he said, handing her a rolled up bill.
"Cocaine? You think I want cocaine?" she said incredulously. "What am I, a lunatic?"
"It's not coke, Lucy. Coke is for crackhead crazies. This'll relax you, believe me."
"What is it then? Don't lie to me."
"Heroin," he said softly. "It's great. Just do a line."
It had killed Patricia Moody. And Harold's brother. And lots of other people. She took the bill, stuck it in her nose, and put it to the mirror.
She was dealing with her grief.
She came to with dawn light in the windows, and a feeling of intense nausea. She opened her eyes, and discovered that she lay on her back, fully dressed, her shoes off and her jeans unsnapped but her clothes otherwise untouched. The warm, rich, sick feeling of the heroin lingered, only now the nausea that had come with it predominated. She remembered how the rush had made her immediately sick, but also how it hadn't bothered her at the time because the pleasure that came with it had been so profound. A sense of philosophic calm inhaled through the nose. Not bad. Only now she paid the price.
There was no one else on the bed or in the room. She got up, tried the first door she saw, and found a bathroom. After peeing, she stood and stared at the toilet, willing the nausea into focus: to leave, or to heave. After a minute, it subsided a little. She plunged her face into a sink full of ice cold water, washed herself vigorously, then chanced a look at the mirror. Her eyes were circled with darkness, her pupils shrunken to pinpoints. She forced herself to stare, fully absorbing her own image, her own destructive, death-inspired image, then she turned away. She went back into the bedroom, put on her shoes, and quietly left the room.
She crept down the stairs and had a look around the empty room. They were all passed out somewhere. Maybe she would never see him again. That would be fine, the way she was feeling. It was just past six o'clock in the morning when she stepped outside, and she didn't know where she was. She walked away from the sunrise light, for she knew Queen Anne lay to the west of Capitol Hill. After walking for a few minutes she hit a commercial street and flagged down a passing cab. The driver was a bearded Indian Sikh with his head wrapped in a turban. He took her back to Robin's place on Queen Anne. She slipped in quietly and got her things, wrote Robin a brief note, and took off, Portland-bound. By eleven a.m. she had returned the rental car and passed out on an airplane headed home to New York City.
CHAPTER FIVE
CLIMBING OUT OF A WELL
Darkness was falling as Lucy, hidden behind sunglasses, taxied from LaGuardia to the city. Her eyes were ruins, reflecting the state of her mind, which she did not want to share with a Haitian cabbie whose car contained a juju bag and a deodorizer dangling side-by-side from the rear view mirror. She paid him and dragged herself upstairs. The voicemail light on her phone was blinking furiously. She threw down her stuff and had a listen.
Harry, back in town, heard what happened, was sorry, wanted to see her.
The cop Sanderson wanted to talk to her.
Rosa said Claud was fine, call when she got back.
Nina Ra
ndolph said fabulous, the Parkistan story, words and pics, is yours.
Her book editor said he had some serious news, call right away.
Patricia's mother needed to speak to her as soon as possible.
Robin said got your note, hope you made it home OK, call soon.
No time to wallow. She picked up the phone and went to her bed and lay down in the near dark. It was just past six. In a few days, daylight savings would end, bringing night at five.
She called Harry, and felt an unbidden rush of...relief?...on hearing his voice. Within seconds he agreed to come over, stopping by Rosa's to pick up Claud on the way. She called the cop Sanderson, got voicemail, and left a message that she was back and OK.
What did Patricia's mother want with her? They'd met once, over lunch at an Upper East Side cafe. Patty had begged Lucy to come along, dreading lunch with Mommy. To Lucy Mommy Moody had seemed harmless enough, a nouveau riche New Jersey lady who lunched, whose recently-acquired good taste found expression in her faux French Provincial Montclair home with its array of mismatched antiques, and who represented to Patty everything she wanted to leave behind in a hurry. From Lucy's point of view, the tension in their relationship was pure irony, because Patty clearly sought the same thing her mother had sought when she married Patty's dad, the accountant: economic security. Their differing interpretations of what that meant arose out of the times: her mother’s time had been about fundamentals, but the new millennium was about flash. Patty had lived and died for flash.
After their lunch date, Patty's mother had emailed Lucy digital images of her lavishly decorated Montclair house, hoping to get it published in SPACES or one of the other design books with which Lucy had some tenuous editorial connection. The interior was dreadful, and Lucy had turned the project down with polite regrets. That was two years ago, and they hadn't talked since.
Lucy called her. Voicemail answered, Mrs. Moody softly asking for messages. Lucy began to leave one, but was quickly interrupted.
"Lucy Ripken? Hello, this is Jacqueline Moody. Thanks for calling back. I..."
"Don't thank me. I meant to call sooner, but I had a family emergency, and..."
"I know. The police told me. I'm sorry, Lucy. I hope your father's all right. I know this might be a bad time to talk, but..."
"That's all right, Mrs. Moody." She didn't have the heart to burden the woman with her own bad news.
"Please, call me Jacqueline."
"OK. God, I'm so sorry about what happened...about Patricia. We had been out together that night, and..."
"I know. They said you met the man she was with that night."
"Smithson. Zane Smithson was the name he used. Not his real name. He was..."
"They told me she was on drugs, Lucy. You know Patty. You were...she said you were her best friend. You know she didn't take drugs."
Lucy felt the lingering, nauseating pull of the heroin. "I told them that. I don't know what happened. But..."
"The police are calling it an accidental overdose. They're not even looking for him any more, Lucy. It's only been a week and they've already...filed her away. They said...that man Sanderson was nice, but his horrid little partner said that Patricia was into...he called it "rough trade." He made her sound like some sort of...like she was guilty, or somehow responsible for what happened. I don't know what he's talking about—but I do know there is simply no way on earth Patty would have taken those drugs voluntarily. She was forced into it, and that means she was murdered, as far as I'm concerned."
"I don't know, Mrs. Moody...Jacqueline. I mean I don't know the exact laws, but you're right about the drugs. She wouldn't have taken them herself. I think that man Smithson, whoever he is, made her do it."
"I need your help, Lucy." Her voice wavered between plaintive and demanding.
"Help? I'm not sure I..."
"Patricia told me about some of the work you've done, looking into things for your book projects. She thought the world of you, Lucy. Did you know that?"
"I liked her, too, Jacqueline. She was a good friend."
"I want you to find this man."
"Find..."
"Zane Smithson. The man who killed my daughter. I've talked to Frank—my husband—about it, and we're willing to pay you."
"I can't...this is a police deal, Jacqueline. I'm not a professional investigator."
"I told you the police aren't interested anymore. You know...knew Patty as well as anybody. You know where...who she saw, and..." she hesitated, overwrought. "I don't know what else to do, Lucy," she said. "The police...Patty didn't have brothers or sisters. She was all we had. They're saying she was a drug user, and a...the police don't care. You knew her, Lucy." She paused. "We want...we just want to know what happened. We'll pay you five hundred dollars a day to..."
Lucy heard a familiar whistle up from the street. "Let me think it over. I have to go, somebody's here with my dog. I'll call you tomorrow, OK?"
"In the morning. Please."
"Fine." She hung up, found her key in a sock, went to the window and lifted it. Harry, with Claud the poodle at his side, looked up at her, reflected streetlight flashing off his glasses. The sight of them gladdened her heavy heart. She threw down the key and closed the window. Harry would help her figure out what to do.
She opened the door just as Claud reached the landing. He bounded into the room and jumped on her. By the time she'd finished greeting him, Harry arrived. "Damn," he said. "Those stairs don't get any shorter, do they?" He looked at her. "Luce, why are you wearing sunglasses in the dark?"
"Harry," Lucy cried, tossing off the shades. "God, it's about time!" She burst into tears and threw herself in his arms. "Jesus Christ, Harry, where the hell have you been?" She sobbed for a moment, then stopped.
He held her. "Hey, hey, I'm sorry, Luce. I had some stuff to do down there." That's all he'd say about it, Mr. Undercover Man. He pulled back, holding her shoulders, and looked her full in the face. "Rosa told me about your Dad. And about Patty. God, what a week you must have had...hey, what..." a flicker of suspicion crossed his face. "Luce, you look a wreck. What have you been doing to yourself?"
"You don't want to know, Harry," she said.
"Au contraire, toots," he answered. "I want—and need—to know." And so she sat him down on her dingy beige sofa and told him the sordid tale of the past week, death, drugs, and rock n' roll delirium included. She was too sad and tired to edit or lie, and so he heard it all, right up to the phone call Lucy had made to Jacqueline Moody just five minutes before he'd arrived.
By the time she finished he had sunk rather deeply into the sofa, with his arms crossed tightly. He stared straight ahead. "Do you have anything to drink?" he said.
"No, sorry, I just got home and...I thought you were on the wagon, Harry."
"Yeah, right," he snapped, and stood up abruptly. "Fine. I'm on the wagon. So...you fucked some punk rock n' roller and he gave you heroin and..."
"I didn't fuck him, Harry," she said.
"Right. Not for lack of desire on your part," he said bitterly.
In her dazed state she'd thought that 47-year old Harry would appreciate the fact that the macho rock n' roll boy half his age couldn't get it up, and so "nothing happened." But there was clearly no appreciation here. What did he expect, anyways? "Harry, what do you want me to do? You disappear for weeks at a time, I get a postcard from Peru and I'm supposed to be old faithful?"
"Hey, I have my work—and you've known it as long as you've known me. So don't give me that." He stared out the window into the darkness, his back to her.
"Harry, please," Lucy said. "Look, I blew it, OK. I was pissed at you because I wanted you to be here and you weren't. So I made a mistake. I got carried away. I'm sorry already, man. But don't blame me for what happened in Seattle. Jesus Christ, Patty OD'ed, my Dad died, my Mom's a miserable robot, my friends're going nuts, so I screwed up, all right! Forgive me."
He turned to face her. She could see his shoulders relaxing, relenting. "Lu
cy, I'm sorry," he said. "You've been through some shit." He came over and sat down by her. "Look, I'm not thrilled at you chasing some punker around, but it's the dope thing that really pisses me off. You know that. You know how I..."
"Yeah, I know, Harry. Your brother and all. But this wasn't about you. It was like...after what happened to Patty, and then my Dad, and I couldn't talk to my Mom, I was...I just lost it."
He looked at her for a long moment, and then said softly, "It's an amazing high, isn't it? Heroin I mean."
"Too good to be true," Lucy answered. "Thank God it made me sick."
"Yeah, it kills people too," he said. "Otherwise we might all be junkies." He sat back on the sofa. "So what are you going to do about this character Zane Smithson? Assuming its him and not one of those crazy fucking bankers you met at the bar."
"Phil’s a possibility, from what the cops said. But I think Smithson smells a lot worse. Do you think I should go after him?"
"You have to, Lucy. We have to. You know the cops. Justice won't be done, otherwise. And I know you care about justice. I've seen you..."
"I'm not doing it for justice, Harry. I'm doing it for Patty and her parents. Plus I'm broke, they have money, and they want to pay me five hundred bucks a day to track down the motherfucker."
"You crass dame," he said, moving closer for a kiss. "I love you when you talk tough about money."
Harry didn't have muscle definition, earrings, tattoos, or long, sexy hair, but he did have wonderful hands, patience, a working organ, and exquisite timing. By the time they finished making love Lucy had fallen in love again with Harry and his thickening middle and his thinning, unruly gray hair. He spent the night, and they made love again early in the morning, before the trucks began their rude roaring in the streets below.
Lost in New York: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 5) Page 7