by Rachel Lee
Back when he'd lived here, it had been very much a boy's room, decorated in blues and golds, almost nautical in style, though not quite. His mother had never been one to lack subtlety.
Lying on the bed, he closed his eyes and let the bone-deep fatigue fill him. Now he didn't have to be strong. There was no one to see him. Turning his face into the pillow, he let the tears come. Abby was gone, never to return. And he didn't think he could bear the pain.
Stacy was gone, too. Not that she'd been a big part of his life lately. It had been months since they'd slept together. But he could still remember her scent, gently musky, and her warm, smooth skin. He had no idea how she'd died, and if Abby's death was any indicator, he didn't want to know. He did, however, want to know why Stacy had been in his living room last night.
Last night.
So much had happened so fast. But it was only last night, at right about this time, when his daughters had called Abby. Abby had probably gone up to bed, after checking the front and back doors. She would have left the dim light on under the kitchen cabinet, as she always did, even when he wasn't home and wouldn't be trundling in there for a late-night snack or a glass of juice. She would have walked up the stairs right about this time, and curled up with her sketchpad and a charcoal pencil, graceful curves and shadows emerging onto the vellum. Deer, most likely, as they were her favorite subject. Soon enough, her eyelids would have grown heavy, and she would have put the sketchbook and charcoals on the nightstand, curling up beneath the handmade quilt and the knit afghan.
Sometime after she'd fallen asleep, Stacy would have arrived. But why? And then the killer. Had they come together? Had the killer found out about her, found out about their relationship, and forced her to let him into Grant's home? That seemed hugely unlikely. Anyone who knew him well enough to have discovered Stacy would also know he didn't keep sensitive files at home, wouldn't they?
Stacy had come in, using the key he'd let her keep. They'd planned to maintain the friendship, and she'd said she intended to volunteer for his next campaign, so he'd seen no reason to take the key back. It had struck him somehow as a crass thing to do.
So she'd let herself in. Maybe the killer, too, or maybe the killer had broken in later. The detective hadn't mentioned any signs of a break-in, though, apart from his office. Maybe Stacy had left the door unlocked. Somehow, anyway, he'd come in. And the horror had begun.
Abby was gone. Stacy was gone. Georgina was long since gone. Death seemed to follow him, although he wasn't a superstitious man. The press had, more than once, compared him to John Kennedy. He didn't especially like that, for any number of reasons. Not the least of them was that he didn't feel worthy of such a comparison.
But now, crying in the darkness, he thought about how much that family had lost. Joe Junior, killed in the war. John, killed in Dallas. Bobby, killed in California. Ted, ruined by the fiasco at Chappaquiddick. Bobby's son losing his leg to bone cancer. Jackie too had gone to cancer. Then John-John, crashed in the sea. So much promise. So much loss.
Would that be his legacy, as well?
He was no John Kennedy. But he had earned his own battle scars. And yes, he was ambitious. It had been said that anyone who ran for president of the United States must be blessed with charisma and cursed with arrogance. Was he arrogant enough to think his country needed him? Yes, he had to admit, he was.
And as so often happened, ideas for a speech began to roil around in his head, and he let them, for they distracted him from a grief he could not yet either bear or absorb.
He sometimes thought of himself as a product of the Generation of Apathy, those whose parents had fought the good fight for freedom abroad, whose older siblings and cousins had marched for freedom at home. His generation had had no war to fight and little to protest. They'd had few illusions to lose. They'd watched a president resign in disgrace, another crippled by senility, and another smeared by his own lust. Communism had collapsed under the weight of its own inefficiency, and religious fanaticism had inflamed the world. News had become a commodity, bought and sold and tainted by corporate moguls with little commitment beyond their own golden parachutes. People were living longer than ever, but also working longer hours, feeling more isolated, brought together only by anger and grief, when their children were gunned down in schools or their landmarks blown up live, on television, with their morning coffee.
When was the last time his country had been drawn together by a common hope, rather than a common fear? By a shared dream, rather than a shared nightmare?
Could he help them find a common hope, a shared dream? Perhaps it was sheer arrogance that he believed he could. Or perhaps it was simply that someone had to step forward out of a generation that had been not so much apathetic as biding its time, waiting its turn.
Abby was gone. Stacy was gone. Georgina was long since gone. But each, in her own way, had helped to shape his vision for his nation. So long as he held true to that vision, nurtured it, shared it, they would never be truly gone from his world.
He pulled a corner of the pillowcase up and scrubbed the tears from his eyes. He would press on. Those he had loved and lost, those who had loved him, deserved no less.
* * *
Across Tampa Bay, far from the Belleair home of the senior Lawrences, in the old-money realm of South Tampa, Jerry Connally sat in his home study and drank bourbon, trying to erase last night from him mind. Trying to numb the creeping sense that he had, in an instant of decision, become nearly as evil as the man who had killed Abby and Stacy.
He would do anything for Grant Lawrence, because Grant was his lifelong friend. Because Grant had a chance at the presidency, a chance to do all those things that Jerry so passionately believed were for the good of the nation. He truly believed that Grant could pull the nation back from the precipice over which it hovered: the precipice of an oligarchy run by big business, with democracy an illusionary sop for the masses.
He believed that.
But he was also a moral man, a man with a family of his own, a churchgoing man. He was a lawyer, trained in the most stringent of professional ethics, which, unlike too many of his colleagues, he took seriously.
Yes, in the world of politics, compromise was necessary. And sometimes things weren't exactly perfect as one hand washed the other. But never in his life had he done something so unclean as he had done last night.
And right now, telling himself that he had saved Grant and the nation from a huge scandal wasn't easing his conscience any.
Nor was the bourbon wiping away the horrific memories that now stained his mind and soul. He had obstructed a police investigation by creating false evidence, by moving a body from the scene of the murder….
Oh, God! The memory of Stacy's limp body, bloodied and torn…With a shaking hand, he poured more bourbon into his glass and promised himself that he would get a grip soon, because he had to. And he'd always done what he had to. But he also promised himself these few hours of remorse, guilt and self-loathing, of grief and fear and disgust. He had to let it blow through him so he could be strong tomorrow.
Just then the phone rang. He stared at it, locked in fear and anxiety. Never before had he feared the ringing of the phone. Now it threatened him.
But the booze hadn't taken hold yet, and he knew if he let it ring, it would rouse his wife and she would answer it. He didn't want that, precisely because he feared what might be on the other end of the line.
"Jerry?" It was Sam Weldon, a quiet, almost invisible man whose job it was to keep tabs on the political activities of opponents so the Lawrence camp didn't get caught by surprise. And Weldon was very good at his job.
"Yeah, Sam." If his brain had fogged in the least from the bourbon, the fog was gone now. Jerry gripped the receiver tight.
"There's a leak at the police department," Sam said. "I don't know who. But I know they've been talking to Youngblood's people."
"Shit!"
"Wait, there's more. The word is that the detective on the case
is suspicious of the scene."
"Suspicious?"
"Yeah. Things aren't adding up."
Jerry felt his stomach plummet. "Anything else?"
"My contact in Youngblood's group says they're looking into Georgina's death again, trying to rake up those rumors that got quashed. You remember that?"
Remember that? He'd had a big hand in quashing them. "I remember."
"Well," said Sam, "it seems they're going to let things ride for a few days. Then they're going to take off the gloves and hit us any way they can."
"That's hardly surprising. They always do." He sounded more confident than he felt. Far more confident. Because for the first time in his life, he was in the wrong. "Thanks, Sam. Keep me posted."
"Always."
Jerry hung up the phone and pushed the bourbon away. He couldn't afford to indulge. Not now. The storm clouds were getting bigger by the second.
7
"Step-ball-point-and-side-in-pivot, turn-and-push-and-step-step-point!"
Alissa Jurgen called out steps with the precision of a drill sergeant, watching the nine girls try to copy her body movements. They were improving. Whether they would be ready for the performance next weekend was yet to be seen, but now it at least looked like they'd all heard the same music in the same place at least once before.
Perspiration flew from the ends of her short bangs as she whirled into a pirouette, halting the movement by kicking her left leg out to the side. Shifting her hips to the left, she moved her weight onto that foot, arched her right toe and planted it with a solid thunk, her hands flashing to her hips, face turned up in exultation. Then her eyes dropped to the mirror, to see the girls behind her.
"No, no, no!" She dropped the pose and turned. "Fay, your back is too soft there. You've just climbed to the top of the wizard's tower and confronted his magic. You've won. You have to feel that. And your body has to say it."
The twelve-year-old girl's face sagged, then crumbled. Alissa turned off the music and walked over to her. "Fay, what's wrong?"
"It's my ankle," the girl said, ashamed, almost too quietly to hear. "It still hurts on the jumps."
Alissa nodded. She'd been pushing the girls hard. Too hard. They seemed to push themselves harder for Stacy, but Stacy wasn't here. Stacy hadn't been here in nearly a week. Alissa knew it was unfair to dump her frustration on the girls. They would be ready enough.
"Okay. That's enough for today. Great work, girls." As they started to break ranks and head for water bottles, towels and gym bags, she took Fay's hand. "Let's have a look at that ankle."
It was swollen, despite the tight wrap Fay wore. The sprain wasn't healing. Alissa took a chemical ice pack from her bag, popped the membrane inside and shook it. In moments the bag chilled. She pressed it to Fay's ankle and secured it with a few turns of tape.
She studied the girl's face. "Fay, it's only been three weeks. You need to rest it."
Liquid brown eyes glistened back at her, brimming with tears. "I want to be in the show."
Alissa nodded. "I know you do. But is one show worth limping for the next six months, or maybe even for the rest of your life?"
Fay's face hardened. "I'm going to beat this, Miss Alissa. I'm going to dance next weekend."
The girl had grit to spare. Perhaps it was that her mother pushed her too hard. Or perhaps she was driven by inner demons. Regardless, Alissa knew enough about human nature, and dancers, to realize what would happen if she pulled Fay from the show. The girl's ankle mattered, but so did her spirit.
"Then you're going to have to keep it up at school, Fay, and wear the brace at night. Like the doctor said."
"I hate the brace."
Alissa set her jaw. "It's wear the brace or miss the show. Your choice."
Fay nodded. "I'll wear it, Miss Alissa. I'm not going to miss the show."
As the girl grabbed her bag and limped to the door, Alissa's heart squeezed. She'd been that way once. Still was, truth be told. The body was an instrument. If it was out of tune, you didn't put it on the shelf. You tuned it. And you pressed on through the pain. Dance was a discipline, every bit as demanding as any sport. Fay would succeed, if for no other reason than that she wouldn't accept failure. If only some of the other girls, some of them more talented, had the same attitude.
Alissa took a long drag from a bottle of water, then toweled her face. She missed Stacy. The girls missed Stacy. The show missed Stacy. But the show must go on.
"Alissa Jurgen?" a voice called from the door.
Alissa flinched at the unexpected presence, then turned. "Yes?"
The woman smiled. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Detective Karen Sweeney, Tampa PD. I wonder if I might have a few minutes?"
Eyes like a snow wolf, Alissa thought. Eyes that brought back chilly memories of Minnesota winters. She suppressed the urge to shiver. Somewhere deep inside, she knew. "Is this about Stacy?"
The detective nodded. "It might be. I'm not sure. You filed a missing persons report, and the description is similar."
Oh no! "Similar to what?"
The woman drew a photograph from a manila envelope. The look on her face said everything there was to say. "I'm sorry, but if you could look at this. Tell me if you recognize her?"
Alissa's hand quivered as she reached for the photo. A lifeless, bloated face, photographed in the harsh, sterile light of a morgue, a sheet up to the neck. Alissa clapped a hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to retch. "Oh God no. No. Not Stacy."
"Is it her?" the detective asked.
Alissa nodded stiffly, trying to catch her breath. Not Stacy! "What…what happened?"
"I'm so sorry," the woman said. She reached out with a warm hand and grasped Alissa's shoulder. "Stacy was…she was murdered. I'm so sorry."
"Excuse me," Alissa said, gasping for breath. "I…I need to…"
She dashed for the rest room, racing the bile that rose in her throat.
* * *
Karen didn't need to hear the sounds to know what was happening. Instead, she paced the studio, forcing herself to take in details that were probably irrelevant, trying to give Alissa what privacy she could, even in her own thoughts.
Part of her thought she should have pulled rank and made Previn do this while she waited in the car. Part of her knew he couldn't have done it. His wife had given him the word last night. She was leaving. He was in no shape to deal with someone else's loss. So he'd stayed in the car, and she was doing this alone. God, she hated this job.
But Jane Doe now had a name. Stacy Wiggins.
She turned at a sound and saw Alissa sagged in the door frame, wiping her mouth. "I know this is an awful time, Ms. Jurgen. But if I could ask you just a few questions?"
"Alissa."
Karen arched a brow. "Excuse me?"
"Just Alissa, please. My mother is Ms. Jurgen."
"No problem. Are you up to talking?"
"No," Alissa said. "But Stacy would be. How can I help, Detective?"
Karen watched the young woman's back stiffen, watched her set her jaw and blink away tears. True determination. The kind of determination Karen supposed was common to dancers and other athletes, if they wanted more than a weekend hobby.
"I need to know a little bit about Stacy," Karen said. "Her friends, her habits, that kind of thing. So maybe we can get a lead to the killer."
Alissa swallowed hard and nodded. "Okay. I can't sit just yet. I'm still cooling down. So can I pace?"
"Sure. I'll pace with you. I've been in the car too much lately."
Connections. Rapport. Essential to her job. Karen watched that first connection show in Alissa's eyes, followed by a nod and a weak smile. A good start. But sometimes she hated herself for being so calculating about these things.
"Okay," Alissa said on a deep breath as they paced before the mirrored wall and barre. "You want to know about her."
"Anything you can share. Who'd she hang out with, did she have a boyfriend, was she worried about anything? What place
s did she frequent?"
Alissa nodded, wiping her face once again with the towel that hung around her neck, taking a small sip of water from her bottle. "I'm sorry. Would you like some water?"
"No, thank you." Postponement. Karen was familiar with it, this holding off of the pain. Everyone did it.
"Well," Alissa said finally, "Stacy kept pretty much to herself. I think she had a boyfriend a while back, but I don't know who he was. I got the impression it evaporated maybe six, seven months ago."
"Did she seem upset?"
"No. Actually she didn't. It was like whatever happened, she considered it a natural end. But I don't know much about it. She never mentioned the guy in any detail, and I don't even have any idea who he might have been."
"Do you know the kinds of places she might have gone with him?"
Alissa shook her head. "Not a clue. Stacy was very private about a lot of things, but especially private about that."
"Did she seem worried or frightened at any time after the breakup?"
"No." Alissa paused. "Well, that's not exactly true. Just recently she complained that some guy she used to know as a client was bugging her, but she sent him away. That was…maybe a month ago. She never said any more about it, so I thought he was leaving her alone." She faced Karen, her face losing the last color from her recent workout, growing truly ashen. "Do you think…?"
Karen shook her head. "I don't think anything right now, Alissa. I'm still at the point of collecting information. When I've got enough information that I can put some pieces together, I start thinking."
Alissa squeezed her eyes shut and released a sharp sigh, as if battling another round of tears. "Okay."
"Now, you said this guy was a former client. What do you mean by client? A dance student?"
Alissa shook her head and bit her lip. "Oh, hell," she said, her face reflecting an internal struggle. "Oh, hell. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. She didn't want anyone to know, but she was an exotic dancer until about two years ago. She gave it up so she could start this studio. I think she was referring to someone she knew from those days."