Lost in New York: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 5)

by J. J. Henderson

  The cop called at eight oh seven digital time. By then Harry was gone, Lucy had walked the dog, and she was catching up on the TIMES, waiting for nine o'clock to call assorted editors. "Ms. Ripken," he said. "Detective Sanderson returning your call." He had a lovely voice, reassuringly deep and rich, but Lucy wasn't going for it.

  "I was returning yours, Detective," she said.

  "Yes. Well, I was just calling to see how your father was doing."

  "He died." She waited.

  "I'm sorry, Lucy," he said. "Hell of a week you had."

  "They don't get much worse." She appreciated his straightforward vibe. "I gather you've already pretty much...um...given up on the mysterious Mr. Smithson."

  "Who told you that?"

  "I talked to Patricia's mother last night."

  "She's misleading you. Because we're...let me just say that she was overly interested...understandably so...in the case, and wasn't making it any easier for us to pursue the few leads we had, so maybe I gave her that impression. But we're still interested, believe me. Turns out that guy Phil moved to LA two days after Patricia died so we thought we had a serious suspect. But..."

  "So was it him?” She interrupted. “Did you get…”

  “He was arrested the same night Patricia died for assaulting a masseuse—and I use the word lightly—at a place called Thai Heaven on West 27th Street. He was in jail when Patty died, bailed out by his dad the next day, moved to LA three days later. The masseuse was illegal and disappeared herself rather than press charges.”

  “Damn. So it’s probably Smithson. But that still doesn’t explain why you had to look up my rock n' roll date."

  "I wouldn't have been doing my job if I hadn't made that call, Ms. Ripken."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know."

  "Mr....um...Saw...was very cooperative."

  "Yeah, he's a real sweetheart." She paused. "So now what? I mean, are you, or are you not, in search of Zane Smithson?"

  "Well, let me put it this way: two more people have died in questionable circumstances in my precinct since the night your friend died. So: the case is still active, yes, but other matters press."

  "So I gather. But have you found anything at all on Smithson?"

  "Nothing yet," he said; Lucy sensed a tiny hitch of hesitation before he said it. "I guess that's the other reason I called, really: to tell you to be careful, because we don't know where he is—or even who he is. And frankly, given the circumstances of Ms. Moody's death, there aren't a whole lot of people around here wanting to spend time looking for him."

  The pompous tone was unintended, but it set her off anyway. "Right. Frankly," she sneered. "To hell with frankly. You people assume that because she's rich and beautiful and...and lived that life...that she must be guilty, and that we all got together and conspired in a lie to save her...what, reputation? Or do you wise men at the police station just figure us for a bunch of fools to think she never took drugs? Well I got news for you, Mr. Policeman: she didn't. So this was manslaughter at minimum. Somebody shoved that shit in her arm or up her nose or wherever. But no matter. That's the most cost efficient approach, isn't it? Just write off reality and there you have it: case closed." She stopped. "Well, be sure and let me know if there's anything I can do. That is, if you happen to give it another thirty seconds of your precious time."

  He paused, then responded evenly. "I'm doing what I can, and that's all I can do. People die from dope in New York City every day, Lucy. Every single day. Believe me when I say that I'm sorry about Patricia. And I'm sorry about your father as well. Just be careful, and please...get in touch if Smithson shows up anywhere in your life."

  "Not likely, but I will." She relented a little. The man was simply trying to do his thankless, relentlessly grim job. "And thank you for calling." She hung up and called Jacqueline Moody. She and her husband agreed to meet Lucy for lunch at Jerry's on Prince Street.

  At nine thirty she called Peter Schallert, her editor at Foot & Wong, the publisher. "Schallert," he said.

  "Hey, it's Lucy R. What's up?"

  "Lucy," he said, instantly all conspiratorial intensity. "You haven't heard, have you? My God, it was all over the media. Where have you been, girl?"

  "I had to go to Oregon," she said. "My father died."

  "Oh my God, Lucy," he said. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. Maybe we should talk later, when things have..."

  "What the fuck is going on, Peter?" she asked sharply. "Just tell me, for God's sake!" He knew precisely which words to excise from a manuscript, but chronically circled the point in conversation.

  "Foot & Wong's been bought, Lucy. We've been conglomerated. The merger monster has devoured us, and...Christ, I don't even know if I have a job come January!"

  " Oh shit. Jesu Cristo. So what happens to the list? What's going to happen to..."

  "We don't know yet. They're probably going to bring in some...Armani-clad savage with a machete to cut costs. Heads will roll, tears will fall, I'll probably end up in the unemployment line, and the booklist will shrink. Who will survive the butcher session God only knows."

  "So my Costa Rican tale might not see print. What about...Oh fuck, Peter. Oh fuckedy fuck."

  "Exactly my sentiments. I don't know...nothing's been decided yet about anything—jobs, books, or even if the venerable Foot & Wong will continue to exist. We're just a little nothing division in the monster juggernaut that is Northeast Industries now, honey, and some number cruncher could delete us in an instant." His voice dropped. "To tell the honest truth, Lucy, I fear the worst."

  She took that in for a few seconds. "I see. Well. So much for another shot at authorhood, bestsellerdom, movie deals, and the house on Malibu Beach."

  "I just want to make rent, honey," he said. "And keep the goddamned health insurance."

  "Right." Peter's longtime lover, an artist named Rene Sanders, was HIV positive, and Foot & Wong's coverage was all they had. "How is Rene, anyways?"

  "He's all right, so far. The cocktail really does work. He's fine, really, but...God, I'm sorry about your father, Lucy. Really I am."

  "Thanks. I wish I could say that he lived a full and happy life, but such is not the case."

  "How's your mother taking it?"

  "Like a rock," Lucy said. He waited for more.

  "That's rather ambiguous, Lucy."

  "I know. I just...hell, Peter, she was...we didn't talk much. I came back three days sooner than I'd planned, OK?"

  "Sorry, sorry. Not my business. Look, maybe this...maybe these fucks will pour a million new dollars into Foot & Wong’s promo budget and we'll publish your book with a huge push and get you on Oprah, I don't know. Don't give up, Lucy, nothing's been decided yet."

  "Sure, Peter. Thanks. Listen, I gotta go, I just got back and have some work to do. Bye now."

  "I'll call you when there's news. Bye, Lucy."

  "Damn," she yelled, slamming down the phone, getting Claud barking. "What else can go wrong, eh pup?" she shouted at Claud, who cowered, looking up at her resentfully, like, don't blame me, bitch, I didn't do it. "Sorry, poodle," she said. "I am just so frustrated right now I could...Oh, the hell with it," she ended her little tirade, picturing Peter and Rene, cowering and fearful about their insurance as the steamroller conglomerate eliminated their needs from its economic scenario, generating a positive response from Wall Street as its lean and mean managers laid off a few hundred or so; then she thought of Mom, wandering through her house on automatic pilot, picking things up, putting them away. Tears started in her eyes. She felt an urge to call her, to apologize for running out on her that way. Why hadn't she tried a little harder, for God's sake?! She dialled the number but hung up before the first ring. It was just seven o'clock out there. Let Mom sleep a little longer. Instead she called Nina Randolph. Whatever else happened, she always needed work.

  Nina, trouper that she was, hardly bothered pretending she was concerned with Lucy's personal life. That was not her territory, and Lucy appreciated her straightforward, cut to the
chase approach. "Darling, sorry about the family business but now that you're back and back in gear, I hope you can get Parkistan shot ASAP. I've slated four pages in February, and need art by the end of next week. Let me know if you have a problem. Vadim is the contact, and if you have a problem speak to Serge at Kremlin...My God, this project makes me feel positively Slavic. Listen, darling, use an assistant, and a stylist if you must, and make it moody, love, moody. Our battle cry for next year is ambience. Everybody's seen enough perfect photographs of expensive pristine rooms, elegant sofas, and sophisticated workstations. We're going for low budget projects with unique personalities, and..."

  "Parkistan is certainly that."

  "Of course, darling. That's why we're doing it. Give up precision for atmosphere. Give me mystery, Lucy. Mystery on a low budget."

  "Hey, there's our title, Nina. Mystery on a low budget."

  Nina laughed drily. "Yes, well...you remember it, because I certainly won't. Let me know how it goes. Bye now."

  "Ciao." Lucy hung up, then started calling around to set up the shoot. It took an hour and a half of heavy phone work to schedule it—the designers wanted to be there for styling purposes, the place was open six nights a week, and Vadim wasn't thrilled at having his people set up early. But press has its allure, and when Lucy told Vadim she'd put him in one of the photographs (his sordidly elegant style positively reeked of mystery on a low budget), he instantly become more agreeable. Then she lined up Simon Stephens to assist. That accomplished, she contemplated calling her mother, got cold feet, and instead dressed and headed out to do a little shopping before her meeting with the Moodys. Whatever else happened in the world, fashion never stopped changing in downtown Manhattan, and you simply had to keep up.

  Lucy went so far as to try on a pair of flares, but a look in the mirror convinced her not to buy. Then, after checking out a gallery show which consisted of a pure yellow room filled with dozens of life-sized green cats and red dogs in erotic poses, she went to meet the Moodys.

  Through the windows on Prince Street Lucy could see that Jerry's buzzed with its usual weekday lunch crowd, the fading avant-garde in its commercial Soho manifestation, creative types and the men and women in suits that bought and sold their creations—words, pictures, buildings, hairdos, clothes, films, songs, red dogs, green cats, hats, jewels, attitude, and ideas. Where art and commerce meet over food, excitement stirs. The artists love to rub up against the money, and the money loves to rub up against the art. Put meat and wine on the table between them, and everybody glows, stylish, well-fed, and pleased for the moment.

  Mr. and Mrs. Moody, instantly recognizable, waited inside. Lucy knew her from two years back; the sixtyish husband in his expensive gray suit had the plodding well-fed certitude of a man who'd spent the last forty years juggling numbers. He did it well, judging by the cut of the cloth. His wife wore a tasteful green pants suit, precisely what you'd expect on an upper-upper middle class Jersey housewife who dabbled in design. Her silver blonde hair was casually coiffed to the max, and her jewels glittered subtly.

  After brief greetings they let Lucy get the table and deal with the waiter; they primly spatted over Mr. Moody's calorie and cholesterol allotment; they didn't say much at all until the business of ordering lunch had been completed. Maybe they were numb, maybe just tired, but they seemed passive. They had initiated this meeting, yet now they waited for Lucy to take command. She did. "I won't waste your time, Mr. and Mrs. Moody," she said after the waiter had gone. "I've thought about your offer, and decided that if you're still interested, I'll do it. I would love to nail that bastard, and..."

  "All we want is to know," Jacqueline Moody said. "Right, Frank?" She looked at her husband, who nodded mechanically, and began to speak.

  "We are willing to pay you..."

  "Yes, I wanted to talk about that. I wonder if you might advance me, say, five days’ pay? Mr. Moody, I don't know if Mrs....if Jacqueline told you, but my father...my Dad..." Why was she getting into this? She felt a flash of panic, and stopped short. "I'm sorry. I'm just..a little worn out right now," Lucy said. "Anyways what I wanted to say was, I'm broke cause I haven't had much work recently, or time to look for it."

  "We understand," said Jacqueline Moody. Her husband nodded. He was taking this worse than her, Lucy could see that much.

  "Look," Lucy said. 'If you want me to go ahead, I need to know if Patty ever talked to you about this guy. When was the last time you spoke with her?"

  They looked at each other, then down. "It was three months ago, Lucy," Mrs. Moody said quietly. "We...I called her but she always had her voicemail on, and she never returned my calls."

  "Lucy," said Mr. Moody, and his voice was suddenly charged. She looked at him more directly, and his eyes met hers. Tired old sad green eyes, but determined to get something across. "Did Patty ever talk to you about this astrologer she was seeing named...Hell, I don't know what his name was. He called himself Nova, but..."

  "Yes. She liked to go to all sorts of...alternative types."

  "But she didn't tell you what Nova made her believe?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "That charlatan told my daughter that she...that I..." his voice broke, and he stopped, then looked to his wife for support.

  She finished for him. "Nova convinced Patricia that Frank had molested her," she said. "And so Patricia accused Frank of abuse."

  "Patricia told me she and this Nova had been going into her repressed childhood memories, and that they discovered that I had sexually molested her repeatedly when she was a child, and that she had locked it away inside. Lucy, this man was the most irresponsible...my God, I...never touched that child. That way I mean. I loved her so much, and for him to...we hadn't spoken in months, and now she's gone." He stopped, tears glinting in his eyes—and their food arrived.

  Lucy never lacked for appetite, but this was too intense a moment for food. And so her lentil salad sat there, along with Mrs. Moody's Caesar and Mr. Moody's steak sandwich. They disposed of the waiter and exchanged glances. "I don't quite know what to say," Lucy finally said. "I never met Nova...and honestly, I'm not sure what this has to do with what happened to..."

  "I just wanted you to know in case somebody brought it up and you thought we were...you thought I was trying to hide something from you," he said. "The police talked to Nova and he told them everything, so naturally they wanted...they questioned me as to my "whereabouts" that night. As if I was a suspect. My God. Of all the sick, sick ideas."

  "We had asked Patty to see a counselor with us," Jacqueline said, "But she said she wanted to finish... ‘exploring her soul with Nova,’ she said. So we never saw anyone, and..."

  "She died...convinced that I had repeatedly abused her," Mr. Moody said. "Convinced by a crackpot astrologer. My God," he said softly. "I called this man on the phone...this was before she died...and he wouldn't even talk to me, except to say that he had told Patty not to see me or talk to me because I was a danger to her and he was protecting her, and then..." he faltered..."I didn't know what to do. She only knew this man a few months, and he destroyed my relationship with my daughter. I mean...I know things weren't great before, between Patty and us, but at least we talked, and saw her once a month or so, and...well, we had some misunderstandings, but they were just that...misunderstandings, disagreements about values...but we played by the rules, by God. We took care of her. We were there when she needed us. And then Nova came along...and now she's gone." He picked up his fork. "Talk to this man, Ms. Ripken. Maybe he knows something about Zane Smithson." He picked up his fork, and clutched it like a weapon. His hands shook slightly. He continued with some vehemence. "I'll be damned if I'll let that bastard get away with this!"

  By the time they finished picking at their food Lucy was more or less convinced that Frank Moody was no child molester but an innocent victim of Nova the astrologer. Lucy remembered Patty talking about Nova, and how she—Lucy—had been amused, at the time, by Patty's earnest, shallow faith in th
is latest Park Avenue guru. She'd thought nothing of it, really. Another one of Patty's harebrained New Age medicine men. They were all over Manhattan, selling everything from cosmic butt massage to hypno-astrotherapeutics, and Patty ran through them like lovers—in fact a few of them became her lovers if their analysis of her life amused or intrigued her, and/or they had the charisma of wealth or beauty. This Nova fellow had conjured from the stars a reason for Patty's unhappiness that she naturally had found satisfying. Nothing like being told you're a victim, and that you have valid reasons to blame other people for every deficiency in your own character. Lucy wondered if Nova had fucked Patty too. Maybe there was a connection with Zane Smithson. Worth a look anyways. This poor abandoned father with his shaky hands and his helpless, broken-hearted rage deserved that much.

  A check for 2500 dollars stashed in her pocket, Lucy walked the Moodys out of the restaurant and sent them on their sad way back to Montclair.

  As she walked home down Wooster Street, in the October light fading off the cast iron of SoHo, she thought of her own father—of good things he'd done. Summer days at Cannon Beach, where he'd taught her to love, not fear, the sea. She could build birdhouses, and change oil or tires; she loved Emily Dickinson's poems and the dog adventure novels of Jack London, thanks to Dad. God, how many opportunities had she let slip, over the last few years, to patch it up with him? She had never been able to get past the shitty, sticky wall of mutual resentment—of seeing him with drink in hand, sneering at her as she walked in the door. His erratic behavior and the booze that caused it were partly to blame, but the fault lay with her as well, for she had been afraid—afraid to reach out to him. For fear of rejection. But then he was gone. She slipped into her building, climbed the stairs, greeted the dog, and called her Mom. Daddy was gone now, and it wouldn't do to stay angry at a ghost. Especially one that she loved with all her heart.

  "Hi Mom, it's me," she said.

  "Lucy," her mother answered, and stopped.