In any other situation, Ellie would bristle at the thought of thirty being “old.” But to have a relationship with a junior in high school? Thirty was ancient.
“What made you think she was keeping Ramona out of the loop?”
“Ramona seemed to buy Julia’s act that she wanted more down time to read and study and stuff. Maybe I’m too suspicious but it seemed to me she was lying. One time she said she’d gone to the rooftop at the Standard with this guy, Marcus, but then later Ramona found out Marcus was at a birthday party for some girl at school the same night. Ramona blew it off, but other times Julia would tell Ramona she fell asleep watching TV, and I could just tell she was lying. When she didn’t show up today, I assumed it was another one of her secret disappearances. I feel awful now.”
“How about her friends? Would you say she was well liked?”
“Seemed like it. They’re both a little more on the wild side, compared to all the matching mean girls at their school, but I think Ramona actually got hassled more than Julia for it. Julia’s dad kind of gave her the cred to be a little off. Compared to the kids at that school, Ramona’s family’s, like, poor or something.”
“And how exactly was Julia off, or I think you said a little wild? A lot of drinking? Drugs?”
“No, nothing more than the usual drinking. Maybe a little weed. It’s hard to explain. Just, you know, more curious about the rest of the world than rich kids usually are.”
“That’s funny. Growing up in Kansas, I always thought wealthy kids in New York were incredibly worldly.”
“I don’t mean living in Paris on your summer vacation. I mean hanging out downtown. Taking the subway.” He lowered his voice. “Being friends with people of a different status. Trying not to be the spoiled brats they’ve been bred to be.”
“And where do you fall on this status spectrum?” Ellie made sure not to look at the light stains near Casey’s shirt collar or the spot on the sleeve where the fabric was wearing thin.
“Pretty damn low.” He looked down at his canvas sneakers. “I’m currently residing-if you can call it that-at Promises. It’s what they call transitional housing for at-risk young adults. It’s what everyone else in the world calls a homeless shelter.”
“Is that where the other kids who went to Julia’s townhouse with you live, too? Brandon and Vonda?”
“Brandon does, but not Vonda. I haven’t seen her in, like, a week.”
“Do you have last names for them?”
According to Casey, Brandon was Brandon Sykes, sixteen years old. Casey had seen him just that day, and he was probably heading back to the shelter that night. Vonda was supposedly nineteen, but he suspected she was younger. He did not know her last name, nor did he know how to contact her.
“And the shelter’s the best address for you?” she asked.
“Until I win the lottery, that’s where I’m at. I guess you need stuff like ages and last names and addresses for police reports.”
She rotated her wrists in front of her. “Like I said, I do an awful lot of typing in this job. And this transitional housing for at-risk young adults is really a better place for you than with your family?” Ellie was no social worker, but she didn’t feel right about leaving this kid in a shelter without at least inquiring.
“My family’s in Iowa, and let’s just say they’re not real interested in being my family these days.”
“Speaking of that report I’ll need to file, I should probably make sure to check your identification.”
“I thought you said I’m not in trouble.”
“You’re not, but I’ve got to make sure we’re not putting false information on a government document.”
Her eyes locked on his was enough to induce an actual tremble.
“I’m sorry, Casey. I’ve got to document every witness. It’s okay. We already know.”
“But-”
“It wasn’t your appearance. I noticed that pause earlier when I asked whether Casey was a nickname.”
There was a full five seconds of silence before Casey sighed and pulled a beaten brown leather wallet from his back pocket.
Iowa driver’s license. Same face. Same stoic expression, masking the softness Ellie had spotted when Casey had first come out of his handstand. All the basic information was there. Five feet, eight inches. DOB March 16, 1992. Green eyes. Full name: Cassandra Jane Heinz.
“Does Ramona know?”
He was looking at his shoes again but nodded. “Yeah. We don’t talk about it, but, yeah.”
She patted him on the shoulder, as she would to reassure any other man. “Thanks. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
C asey watched the police detectives talking as they walked back toward Waverly. Even from behind, he could recognize the dynamic. The male cop may have remained silent through the entire exchange, but Casey had seen the guy’s expression at the sight of the driver’s license. She was cool with everything. He wasn’t.
That always seemed to be how things went.
As he watched them drive away in their nondescript blue sedan, he wondered whether he had done the right thing. He had told them what they needed to know about Julia, but he hadn’t told them everything. Not really.
One little lie-not even a lie, just a secret-couldn’t possibly make a difference. And the one little secret, if disclosed, would only hurt Ramona even further. He hadn’t done it to protect himself, he told himself. It had been for Ramona.
He returned to his handstands, trying to set aside the terrible feeling that somehow he had made a mistake.
Chapter Thirteen
Bill Whitmire watched his wife, who sat cross-legged on their bed, using the palm of her hand to smooth out the surface of their down duvet. He could hear her voice from the last time they’d spent more than a single night there, reminding herself aloud that it was finally getting warm enough to pack that layer into storage and replace it with the cotton coverlet she loved so much.
Since then, their visits to the city hadn’t been long enough to justify even that minor change.
She was surrounded on the bed by brochures and pamphlets fanned out in front of her like tarot cards. Her therapist had dropped them off earlier tonight. He’d heard their conversation in the foyer. Grief counseling. Group therapy. Bill-never a fan of psychotherapy-might feel more comfortable in solo sessions, with a separate therapist.
The therapist had also warned that they might require couples counseling. The sooner the better, he had said. He’d told Katherine that the majority of parents who lost a child ended up divorced within three years.
Bill had been tempted to storm downstairs and throw the man out. Using the death of their child to instill fears in Katherine about their marriage? But for some reason, he couldn’t stop eavesdropping, watching them in the front hall from his spot on the second-floor landing. He wanted to hear his wife defend herself. To defend their marriage and the family they had created. To tell him they would be just fine-together.
Instead, she’d allowed the therapist to drone on. “That’s not to say that you and Bill won’t weather the storm,” he’d said. “Some couples become closer than ever. They find a permanent and impenetrable connection in the memories of the child who was lost.” He had interlaced his fingers together to demonstrate the bond that she might suddenly form with her husband.
When Katherine had finally spoken, it was to say words he never would have expected to hear. “You’ve sat through enough sessions with me to know that Bill doesn’t form permanent and impenetrable bonds with anyone, let alone me.”
Julia-his Baby J-had been dead less than a day, and he could already feel the mother of his children slipping away from him.
It had started earlier this evening, after the police detectives left and before the therapist had arrived. She had been lying on the bed, and he had tried crawling next to her. Usually she was the one who sought physical proximity during sleep. She was the one who would back up into his body, nudging him to wrap
his arms around her. Usually he would roll away to avoid the extra heat.
But today, he’d reached out for her. He’d pressed his chest against her back, wrapping his arms tightly around her. It had been Katherine who had pulled away, pretending to roll over in a sleep she had not yet actually found.
Unlike his wife, though-in fact, unlike most people-he was not the type to wallow among a stack of mumbo-jumbo pamphlets or numb himself with happy pills, all in the hope that life would somehow magically improve.
He recognized his wife’s strengths and weaknesses, and dealing with a problem was not her strength. Making decisions was not her strength. These jobs always fell to him. Even with the studio on Long Island, he had to be the one finally to pull the trigger.
He told her he worked better out there. He told her he was getting sick of the city. But he also was very clear that he would stay in the townhouse if that was what she and the kids wanted. He knew how much she loved the house. He knew the kids still had their high school years ahead of them.
But she had refused to decide. She made endless lists of pros and cons. She talked about her love of the beach. The ease of life out in the Hamptons. Her friends who were spending more time there. She would wonder aloud whether the kids were mature enough to be unchaperoned during the week, but never ventured an answer.
And so he had made the decision. After talking to Julia and Billy-two of the strongest-willed, loudest-voiced children ever created-he had made the call to give up the lease on the recording space in the city and build the studio in Long Island. Two years later, he was still hearing Katherine’s passive-aggressive comments about how much she missed the city.
Now it would fall to Bill once again to fix this problem. She was pushing him away now, but he knew she would never leave. He also knew she would eventually begin to heal, not with those fucking pamphlets and her therapist’s psychobabble, but once they had answers.
He had thought at first they were on the same page. Those police officers had been so dismissive when they’d initially found Julia’s body. He’d never seen Kitty so angry and full of determination.
But when those two detectives had come back later tonight to take another look around, the fire he’d seen in her had dissipated, replaced by anemic hope: They really did seem motivated to find out what happened to Julia, didn’t they? They know what they’re doing, right?
More than fifty percent of couples split within three years, the therapist had warned.
Well, not them. Not after all these years.
Bill knew how to fix this. He walked downstairs to his office and made the phone call.
Chapter Fourteen
Even from the hallway outside her apartment, Ellie could hear the television blasting.
“Holy hell,” she said, pushing the door closed hard behind her with her hip, the extra effort needed due to the many layers of old paint around the frame. “Mrs. Hennessy always said that rock-and-roll music of yours would make you deaf. Do I need to schedule you an appointment for a hearing aid already?”
Jess was barely visible on the sofa, his face peering out from beneath the comforter that she’d last seen on her bed. She heard a moan of some kind, followed by the sight of the remote control at the blanket’s edge. The volume decreased.
“That crazy biddy also said my music would lead me to Satan’s altar.”
“And I’m sure if she were still alive, she’d say New York City was close enough. You’re still home?”
“I think I’m sick.”
“Great. Remind me to wipe down that remote with rubbing alcohol.”
“You’re back early.”
“Technically I get off work at four o’clock, remember?”
“Yeah, right. You mean the way technically this apartment is occupied by the granddaughter of Mrs. Delores Macintosh?”
Ellie’s rent-stabilized sublet wasn’t entirely aboveboard. The fact that Jess had been the one to hook her up with the deal probably explained his comfort with long-term tenancies on her sofa.
“Don’t knock my overtime. How do you think I can afford your IQ-destroying basic cable? I thought The Hills was your drug of choice,” she said, glancing at the television screen.
“You are so 2009. I had a brief addiction to Toddlers and Tiaras, but it was actually too depressing, even for me, the way they tart those girls up. No offense, sis.”
“Please don’t compare me to a five-year-old with waxed eyebrows.” Ellie had briefly made the rounds in Kansas beauty pageants-a phrase that Jess often called an oxymoron-but strictly for the scholarship money. Even with a couple of runner-up prizes, she could only swing part-time classes at Wichita State. She had less than three semesters of credit by the time she left.
“I’ve since moved on to those impeccable arbiters of domestic modesty and taste, the housewives. They’re real, you know. One hundred percent authentic, real housewives. Because fake housewives just won’t do. Any city will suffice, but I am currently imbibing those lovable divas of our very own two-one-two.”
“From college girls to New York City cougars. I’ll choose to take the development as a sign of maturity. No work tonight?”
“I called in sick.”
“I would think your germs would blend in just fine at the Booby Barn.” With his current job at a strip bar, her brother had beaten his longest record of employment four-fold. The so-called gentlemen’s club on the West Side Highway was named Vibrations, but she and Jess preferred to conjure up their own pseudonyms.
“You planning to see Captain America?” he asked. “I can scram if you need me out of here.”
Jess had been referring to ADA Max Donovan as Captain America since she and Max had first met. She was convinced that they could marry and celebrate their fiftieth anniversary and Jess would still be calling him Captain America.
“He got called out to Rikers.”
“Want something to eat?”
The invitation usually led to Jess choosing the take-out place, Ellie paying, and Jess eating most of what arrived.
“I’m not hungry yet. You want me to get you something? Chicken soup?”
“No, I’ll call the deli when I’m ready.”
“I had a callout today to Bill Whitmire’s house.”
“Are you kidding me? The Bill Whitmire?”
“His house has an elevator.”
“He’s Bill Whitmire. His house should have an elevator, a water slide, and strippers in every room. Please tell me you slipped him a demo of Dog Park.” No matter where-or whether-he earned a paycheck, Jess’s true calling was as lead singer and guitarist for his band, Dog Park. Ten years ago, Ellie had moved to the city when she sensed that Jess’s phone calls home to Wichita-filled with allusions to always-imminent but never-actual “big breaks”-were a cover for serious trouble. What she found instead was that Jess had managed to carve out something of a life for himself, albeit not the one he described to their mother. Since then, she’d done the same.
“Right. Because I carry your demos around with me. Not to mention that his daughter killed herself last night.” She gave him a brief run-down of her day. “The girl’s mother couldn’t handle it. Says the girl would never do something like that. She kept begging me to believe her.”
“You all right?”
She was losing track of the number of people who’d asked her that today. “Yeah. Fine. You didn’t come home last night.” Yesterday seemed like such a long time ago. “You stayed over at that bartender’s place?”
“Rebecca. Bartender slash actress slash singer slash superfine hottie.”
Just like Jess was a titty-bar bouncer slash rock god, the people he knew usually had multiple professions. Most recently, he had been spending multiple overnights per week with a victim on one of Ellie’s cases from last fall. That particular woman was an artist slash prostitute, but she’d vowed to get out of the life after it almost got her killed. Ellie had only just gotten past her worries about the relationship when it finally ran its course
, as relationships with Jess always seemed to do.
She tried joining him in front of the television, but watching the real housewives fight over who drank more pinot grigio made her want to arrest somebody.
“I love you, Jess, but I can’t do it. It’s like I feel brain cells seeping away with each passing minute. I’m heading to the gym.”
“Keep it gangster.”
E llie remembered everything about the first time she got punched in the head. She screamed, not from the pain, but from the complete surprise of the impact itself. It was only as she screamed from the shock that the actual, physical pain registered. The piercing stab right behind her temple that seemed like it had to have cracked her open from ear to ear. The throbbing that radiated across her skull, down her jawbone into her neck. The blurring of her vision. The sincere belief that her brain was rattling behind her sockets like candy in a thumped pinata.
The punch had been delivered by a sixteen-year-old kid she caught tagging a phone booth in Hell’s Kitchen. Stuck on graveyard with ten minutes to go before shift change, she had planned on confiscating the spray can and letting him off with a warning. The skinny kid with long bangs and the moniker 2SHY didn’t know that, though, and caught her off guard with a right hook. What she remembered most about that first punch was her anger-not about the punch, but about the tears. She had blinked over and over again, trying to focus her vision, trying to stop the pain, but mostly trying to stop those stupid fucking tears from falling down her face in front of the shitty little kid who’d gotten a jump on her.
She was so humiliated about getting knocked by a hundred-pound teenager that she processed the criminal mischief charge but let him slide on the assault of a police officer. It was only her third month on the job. She was still getting past the beauty-queen jokes. She didn’t need the house to know she’d cried from a sucker punch.
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