Trashed

by Alison Gaylin

  Simone’s hangover was now in full bloom. Her eyeballs strained against their sockets, and she was so thirsty her tongue could grow fur and it wouldn’t surprise her. When Madison tugged at the leash again, she nearly toppled to the ground.

  She closed her eyes, breathed deeply. She tried imagining herself at the suicide scene, affecting one of those laid-back California accents as she spoke to police outside that gate. I was wahlking my dahg and huhrd this comewtion. Did something hahpen to Umrahld?

  The way she was feeling right now, it was hard to imagine saying anything at all, let alone saying it in character .

  Would she ever be allowed to tell the truth? Less than two full days on this job and already she was beginning to suffer from honesty withdrawal.

  Simone recalled her last image of Neil Walker, running his fingertips along the edge of that idiotic pterodactyl nest, as she told him with no explanation, “I have to go.”

  “You do? Why?” He’d looked so confused. But she hadn’t said another word; she’d just raced out of Bedrock, like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight. Thinking about it made her wince. Simone didn’t like screwing with people’s heads. She was not, by nature, a mysterious person.

  Madison barked, tugged, and gagged in rapid succession.

  “All right already, I’m going, I’m going. . . .”

  At the end of the block, Simone turned right on Linda Vista. She looked up the steep street—literally up the street—and nearly cried. Just get it over with. It’s not like the house is going to come to you.

  Simone figured she may as well carry Madison. The dog probably didn’t weigh much more than a can of peas, and anything beat listening to it gag.

  She crouched down, stuck a finger under Madison’s collar, and unhooked the leash at the exact same moment she noticed the helicopters buzzing overhead. Then a news van sped by and screeched to a halt several blocks up, near the top of the hill.

  That’s when Madison took off, heading straight up the hill like an oversized cotton ball shot out of a cannon.

  Come back here, Simone wanted to scream as she chased the little dog up the pavement to the end of the block, across the street and one, two, three blocks more, her knees buckling, breath burning into her lungs like astringent. Her face throbbed. She felt a long, sharp pain in her side as if an axe were buried in it, but still she kept moving.

  She could not lose Kathy’s dog in the Hollywood Hills—not with the coyotes and the rattlesnakes and all those idiots driving Hummers, screeching through intersectionswithout a passing glance at whatever tiny animal might be scurrying in front of their enormous, bone-crushing tires. . . .

  Finally, Simone caught sight of Emerald’s house. The gate was open, and easily half a dozen police cars spilled out the driveway, along with various unmarked vehicles—belonging, no doubt, to DAs, detectives, criminologists . . . not to mention the three news vans across the street, shooting footage of . . . what were they shooting? The vehicles, the front of the house, the backs of two men in shirtsleeves and dress pants, walking up to the front door, carrying briefcases made of metal.

  The house was tall and thin like Rapunzel’s tower—only Mexican-style, with red and pink bougain-villea crawling up its face. Madison stopped in front and started sniffing at the curb.

  Thank you! Simone caught up to the dog, practically fell on top of it . . . until she skirted under one of the cars and scurried up the driveway.

  “Wait,” Simone gasped. She was aware of uniformed officers milling on the doorstep. None of them looked at her. Neither did the small group of men and women in suits involved in hushed conversation on the sidewalk, or even the TV reporters across the street, shouting, “Officer! ” and “Do you have a statement?” There was too much going on. Too many other things more deserving of attention than a small, sweaty young woman in tennis whites doubled over in pain as she attempted to chase a cockapoo up the driveway, both of them weaving around the cars, both of them making their way to the back of the house.

  Emerald’s backyard was surprisingly large, considering how closely the houses were jammed together. Simone had chased Madison behind a magnolia tree and through a line of hedges to get here, and now she found herself in a Mexican-style paradise, with painted tile pathways winding through lush green grass dotted with impatiens and blossoming white hibiscus. A tennis court stood beyond the landscaped area, shaded by thick oaks.

  At the center of the tile pathway was a bubbling fountain. The minute she saw it, Simone forgot all about Madison, the cops, Emerald’s lifeless body in the house behind her . . . everything except the crisp music of water hitting marble.

  LA tap water quality, Simone had read, ranked a dismal twenty-second among major U.S. cities. But Simone was too parched to care. She crouched over the side of the fountain, and shoveled water into her face like a lunatic.

  When she was finally sated enough to draw breath, Simone felt a moist tickle on her calf and realized Madison was licking her. She turned around, sat on the grass, and picked up the dog, which curled up in her lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  A crime-scene-trained cockapoo. God, Kathy Kinney is good.

  Simone closed her eyes and put her head back for a few minutes, listened to the water. She felt the sun soaking into her face and thought, Emerald left all this. Why?

  Simone didn’t hear footsteps, but after a few minutes she did notice that someone was standing over her, blocking the sun. She opened her eyes and stood up to face a curly haired woman around her own age in white capris and a pale green T-shirt that read “Peace, Love and Suburban Indescretions.”

  “Um . . . hi?” said Simone.

  The woman’s eyes were dry, black stones. “Are you the new tennis pro?”

  You are not a reporter. You are an insider. “Yes,” said Simone. “I’m the tennis pro.”

  “I’m Holly, Miss Deegan’s personal assistant? She won’t be able to meet with you today. I’m sorry. I should have called.”

  The woman’s voice was flat, mechanical. Simone peered into her eyes. She saw that dying shock—like a candle flickering. She said, “You were the one who found her.”

  Holly opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She did this a few times—a kind of strange, sad tic—before tears spilled down both her cheeks, and she turned away and started to sob.

  Simone didn’t think about what to do. She was exhausted, her emotions pressing up against her skin, so she placed Madison on the ground and took the personal assistant into her arms and just hugged her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Holly said, “How did you know?”

  “I can just tell these things. It’s okay . . . I mean, God, it’s not okay. It’ll never be okay, but . . .”

  Holly cried into her shoulder for quite some time, without saying a word. Simone wished she could do something more, say something to make her pain go away—until she took a few steps back from herself and remembered she did not know this woman and she’d lied her way into the hug. She wasn’t a friend. She was an insider.

  Finally, Holly caught her breath and pulled away. “It still hasn’t really sunk in,” she said.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I keep thinking I’ve got to remind Emerald about Kabbalah class. And she needs a pedicure appointment for this party tomorrow night, and . . .”

  “She was planning on going to a party?”

  Holly nodded.

  “Why . . . I mean . . . did you have any idea why she would have done this?”

  She shut her eyes very tightly and said nothing. For a moment, her face seemed to close in on itself.

  “Sorry, that was a really stupid question.”

  Holly said, “No, it isn’t.” Her dark gaze darted away from Simone’s face and scanned the landscape behind her. “Emerald wasn’t the one who did it.”

  “What?”

  “Ms. Kashminian,” a female voice called out. Simone saw a slim woman in a pale blue linen suit
standing at the back door. “Can you please answer a few more questions? ”

  Holly sighed. “Come with me,” she said to Simone. “I could use the company.”

  Simone scooped up Madison and followed Holly to the back door, through a laundry room and into a large, modern-looking kitchen, where a group of latex-gloved criminologists snapped pictures of . . . what? An open drawer?

  Despite the rumble of conversation, the unfamiliar arms around its tiny body and the runny wedge of Brie cheese that stood, untouched, on a platter on the kitchen counter, Madison did not make a sound. (Yes, Kathy Kinney was that good.) No one turned to look at Holly, Simone, and the woman in the suit as they passed through the room and climbed a long flight of stairs up to what must have been the master bedroom. The door was half open, and within, Simone could hear the popping of cameras, the whizzing of Polaroid film. She saw a group of dark-clad men and women snapping pictures around the bed. Like a photo shoot, only . . .

  Simone was aware of that smell, the same smell from Emerald’s garbage, just two days ago. Endangered species, she thought. Closer to the door, a piece of paper was taped to the floor. On it, a large, handwritten number three. Simone had to peer at it closely to see what the paper was labeling: a small, dark spot on the floor, much like the spot on the silver shoe, the pool in the sink . . . Blood?

  The woman turned to Simone. “Who are—”

  “She’s the tennis pro,” said Holly. “I brought her for moral support. This is Detective Bianchi. You know, I never got your name. . . .”

  “Simone.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the dark spot.

  The woman nodded. “I need to show you something in the master bathroom, Ms. Kashminian.” She looked at Simone. “Wait here, please.”

  Detective Bianchi pushed the door open, and the two women moved past the group and disappeared as Simone stood there staring at the scene, the dog a warm weight, its heart beating rapidly against the crook of her arm.

  Two of the criminologists left Emerald’s bedside, brushing against Simone as they made their way back downstairs. “Cute little dog,” said one of them, but Simone didn’t answer.

  She could see the edge of the bed. She could see Emerald’s hand.

  Were it not for the cameras, for that smell, for the deep stain on the sheet beneath it and dried blood crusting the frail, bare wrist, Simone might have thought the hand belonged to a statue. It was that white, that cold looking. That perfectly still. So much blood, around one small woman.

  She shot herself? Or did someone else . . .

  In her mind, Simone could hear those bracelets jangling as Emerald threw the cell phone across the room, Keith Furlong’s name on the caller ID. So full of motion she was, so wired and angry and alive. She could hear Emerald’s voice, that edge in it, and try as she might, she couldn’t reconcile that with this blood, this smell, that unadorned limb like a stage prop on the stained satin sheet.

  I intend to live alone until I’m at least thirty.

  I intend to live alone. . . .

  I intend to live.

  Simone’s eyes started to water, not from the smell of death but from the feeling of it. She held Madison tightly—just to be close to something with a beating heart. That’s when she heard one of the criminologists say, “. . . cut her own throat . . .” And for the first time she could remember, Simone’s curiosity failed her. She leaned against the wall, waiting with her eyes closed, because she couldn’t look anymore, she just couldn’t.

  “Let’s go back outside.”

  Simone opened her eyes to Holly’s face. She looked very pale and Simone saw something in her eyes, a type of dull outrage, as if, on top of everything else, someone had just insulted her. “Okay,” Simone said, and followed Holly back down the stairs and out the door, the phrase cut her own throat rolling through her head.

  Simone remembered the red pool in Emerald’s sink. Actors rehearse. She pictured Emerald standing at the sink, nicking the skin of her throat, thinking: Can I do this?

  But that didn’t explain the silver Jimmy Choo. It didn’t explain . . . Two cut throats, one month apart, the first victim’s shoe in the second victim’s garbage. . . .

  As soon as they got out onto the grass, Madison squirmed, so Simone placed the dog on the ground and attached the leash before saying, “Holly, what—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She stared at her. “What do you mean, you don’t—” “You’re going to ask what that detective showed me in the bathroom.”

  “No,” Simone said slowly. “I was going to ask you what you meant when you said Emerald didn’t kill herself.”

  “Oh, that.” Holly sighed, her gaze falling on the green grass, then returning to Simone’s face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “No apologies necessary,” said Simone.

  “Can I . . . Do you mind giving me your number? I can’t talk to anybody right now but . . . maybe later.”

  “Of course.”

  From her back pocket, Holly removed a piece of spiral notebook paper and a pen, and handed both to Simone. The notebook page had some writing on it. “MUNG BEANS. FLAXSEED BREAD. VITAMIN WATER,” it read in neat, block letters, the points of the as sharp, the es made to look like backward threes.

  “Use the back,” said Holly, and Simone wrote down her cell phone number.

  “New York area code,” she said.

  “Yeah,” said Simone. “I . . . um . . . That’s where I’m from. Originally.”

  Holly looked at Simone for what seemed like a very long time. “I can trust you, right?”

  Simone felt a stab of guilt, but she nodded anyway. You are not a reporter. You are an insider. You’re not hurting anyone. You’re just . . .

  Holly reached into her pocket and took out a business card. “I don’t give my number to very many people,” she said, as she handed it to Simone. “But, I don’t know. I get a good feeling from you. And I could use a friend.”

  “Thanks.” The guilt was spreading like a fresh stain.

  Suddenly, Holly shouted, “Get the fuck out of here! Don’t you have any decency at all?” She was looking over Simone’s shoulder.

  Simone turned around. It took a few seconds for her to add up in her head exactly what she was looking at—to make sure it wasn’t some sleep-deprivation-induced hallucination.

  It was Neil Walker—security expert, Rhinebeck native, the first normal person she had met since moving to this strange city. Okay, maybe he was working security at the crime scene, but he was between two uniformed cops, and they were escorting him out the back door of Emerald Deegan’s house. Simone’s first thought was, Please don’t give me away, Neil. Her second, which she said out loud, was, “What the hell?”

  “Tabloid reporter,” said Holly.

  “Tabloid reporter?” Simone practically choked on the phrase. “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. That one’s been thrown off set before.”

  “He has?!”

  Holly nodded. “I hate tabloid reporters.”

  Simone locked eyes with Walker. He gave her a small, sly smile.

  “Me too,” she said.

  SIX

  Like most aspiring journalists, Simone checked the masthead of every publication she read. The size of the staff list, the job titles, the ratio of male to female names . . . that could tell you a lot about whether you’d want to apply for a position there and what your chances were of getting one.

  But Simone had never read the Interloper. That was too bad. If she had read it—if she had checked the competing tabloid’s masthead even once—she would have recognized the name when he’d said it at Bedrock . . .NEIL WALKER: Senior Reporter

  There it was, in bold black letters, smack in the middle of the list. He didn’t even bother to make up an alias. “Unbelievable,” Simone said. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

  Simone was at the huge outdoor newsstand directly across the street from the Asteroid. Nigel had given her money to buy the
daily papers once she arrived back at work at ten a.m., after changing her clothes, and dropping the dog off at Kathy’s West Hollywood apartment. But she hadn’t gotten very far on that assignment. For ten minutes at least, she’d been standing here, the bright sun pressing into the back of her neck, shaking her head at Walker’s name.

  “You looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Security expert.’ Right in the eye, without a hint of . . . Nobody can do that to me. You’re like . . . a world-class liar. You could go to the Lying Olympics.”

  “You talk to yourself too, huh?” said Elliot’s voice behind her.

  Simone turned around.

  “Suggestion: put your hand over your ear. People will think you’re on your cell phone.”

  “Uh, thanks,” said Simone. “Did Nigel send you after me?”

  “He thinks you took his money and ran away,” Elliot said. “You really can’t blame him—it’s kind of an epidemic lately.”

  “Still no word from Destiny?”

  “I’m hitting her cans tonight.”

  Simone frowned at him until she realized he was talking about stealing trash, which made her think of . . . “There’s something really weird about Emerald Deegan’s suicide.”

  Elliot’s face darkened. “It wasn’t because of me.”

  “Huh?”

  “When I told Emerald about Furlong and Destiny and the steak,” he said.

  “Oh, no, Elliot, I—”

  “She didn’t even look surprised. Grossed out, yes. Angry. But not like she was going to—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  Elliot said, “It’s not?”

  Simone put a hand on his shoulder. “No.” She looked into his malamute eyes and saw moisture creeping into the corners, saw the way his thick brows pressed into each other as if they were trying, in vain, to push awful thoughts out of the brain behind them.

  “Keith Furlong was a dog, and Emerald knew it,” she said. “One disgusting steak anecdote wasn’t going to push her over the edge.” Simone wasn’t sure whether this was true, but she believed it was. Besides, Elliot needed to hear it.