“I do know it,” she whispered, now. “I do.”
This was what she loved most about Mr. Freeman—his need for her. And so she’d done what he had asked her to do, which was to stop Errol Ludlow. Put him out of his own misery and Mr. Freeman’s, too. He will throw me and my family out on the streets, DeeDee. He doesn’t care about us. Stop him. Now.
He hadn’t said how he wanted Errol stopped, but Diandra knew. She knew Mr. Freeman, better than he knew himself. The proof: By the time he had called her, she was already prepared.
Ecstasy and Viagra was known on the streets as “trail mix,” and it was awfully dangerous—“Russian roulette,” Saffron had told Diandra two nights ago. Saffron was a large black man with a shaved head and diamond studs in his ears. He wore a tight white T-shirt and had very white teeth. To Diandra, he had looked otherworldly, glowing. “Want to go to heaven, sugar?” he had said to her upon approach, and it had felt as though she were talking to an angel.
Saffron hadn’t been the first man to speak to her at the Rose Room that night but he had been the right one, and so she’d gone back with him to the VIP lounge, which was not quite heaven but as close as one could get on a cold Friday night in Dumbo. Afterward, she glowed, as if she’d absorbed some of his shine. He’d shown her the bag of pills in his pocket, and that’s when the idea had come to her—she wasn’t quite sure how or why. “Can I have three or four for a friend of mine?” she had said, testing out the idea, watching for emotion in the gleaming black eyes. “He likes to take them with his Viagra.”
Saffron had looked alarmed—something Diandra hadn’t quite thought possible. “Tell your friend he could have a heart attack,” he had said, such a beautiful, helpful man.
And here, she had no idea that the next day, Mr. Freeman would call and beg for her help—no conscious idea, anyway. But when he did, of course he did, scared and shaky-voiced and needing her like water, Diandra was able to help him, without hesitation.
If that wasn’t a soul-connection, she didn’t know what was.
Diandra had convinced Errol Ludlow to take three of them, even though he’d wanted nothing to do with pills at first. “You’ll be amazed at your performance,” she’d whispered in his ear, easing her fingertips down the length of his chest, slipping them under the black silk robe he’d put on, exploring . . . “Oooh, you wore the ring.”
“I’ll take the pills,” he had said, his voice thick from desire. And then she’d given him the pills with a glass of champagne and followed the same trail with her tongue. The entire time, Mr. Freeman’s voice was in her head, urging her on.
And he had moaned, Errol Ludlow. He had run his hands through her hair and called her incredible and he had told her . . .
Had he said, “I love you”?
I love you, my sweet . . .
He couldn’t have said that. Not Errol Ludlow, who loved no one. Hadn’t he told Diandra as much during her job interview? Hadn’t he bragged, Here at Ludlow Investigations, we make good money proving time and time again that true love is a lie?
“You never loved me,” she said now. “You loved who you made me into.”
That was the way most men were. They look at a pretty face, they fill in the blanks, and that’s who they love—the girl their minds make you into. Diandra’s stepmonster had said that once while putting on her lipstick—and she did have a point. Why, Diandra’s own adult life had been a succession of men, each one filling in her blanks so reverently, ascribing to her such goodness—or for that matter, badness—she barely had to lift a finger to win their love. The ancient Greeks called Beauty a virtue. They put it right up there with Truth. The Monster had said that, too. And if she was right, it was easy to see how the Romans had kicked their asses.
I love you, my sweet . . .
Diandra shut her eyes tight. She didn’t like this feeling, this niggling guilt. What would have helped was if Mr. Freeman had said something, anything to her over the phone this morning. He was a busy man and never alone and probably half asleep when she’d called. But still, she’d hoped, at the very least, for a “Thank you.”
Diandra wouldn’t stay mad at him for long, though, she knew. She could never stay mad at Mr. Freeman—who had listened to her when she was DeeDee Walsh, a mousy brown butterball with zits and food-clogged metal braces and just thirteen years old.
When her stepmonster had first brought her into his office for her audition, DeeDee had been so embarrassed she couldn’t even say hello. She’d expected The Monster to carry the conversation the way she always did—with her peekaboo hairdo and her keyhole blouse and her perfect Marilyn smile . . . But Mr. Freeman had barely looked at her. He’d been so kind, asking DeeDee questions, such as “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” and “What are your career goals?” And when she answered, he’d looked her in the eye—as though it mattered what she said. DeeDee had caught sight of one of the pictures on his desk—his two tiny blonde daughters—and thought, I’d do anything to trade places with one of them.
Mr. Freeman had believed in DeeDee the way no one else ever had. He couldn’t get her many parts, but she knew he was trying. She knew that there were times of the day when he thought of her, and her alone. You have every character inside of you, DeeDee, beneath that beautiful skin, he would tell her. There is no part you can’t play. There is nothing you can’t do. And even when she grew too old to be a client and dropped out of his life for years, he kept her in his thoughts—the same way she’d kept him in hers.
Diandra’s phone chimed once. Her heart leaped, but just a little bit. One chime meant a text, and Mr. Freeman never texted her, but she looked at it fast anyway, allowing herself that taste of hope.
The text was from Trent LaSalle. It read: Sup?
She sighed. Articulate as ever. Timely, too. She’d texted him five hours ago, and coming from a geek like Trent LaSalle who announced his every move on Twitter and Foursquare, a five-hour text delay was unacceptable.
She typed: Where U been?
Long story. Later!
Diandra’s eyes narrowed. She stared at the words on her screen. The smiley face. Are you kidding me? “He’s blowing me off.”
What would Mr. Freeman say? Diandra had been told to keep an eye on Trent LaSalle—and on his boss, Brenna Spector. They need to get close to the truth, he had said, but we can’t let them get too close. Do you know what I’m saying, DeeDee? We need to watch them more carefully than they’re watching Lula Belle.
Of course she knew what he was saying. She always knew what he was saying.
And now Trent was blowing her off. He was wrecking her plans, just like her last L.A. boyfriend had done with his You were pretending with me, and his I’ll get you back for hurting me. I’ll get you good, you and him. Just like Shane.
This can’t happen.
Diandra took a deep breath. Calm, calm . . . She needed a face-to-face, that was all. He’d never be able to blow her off in person. He wasn’t strong enough for that. How long had their first encounter lasted? Thirty, forty seconds? He’d done better the second time, but still. Trent was not one for self-restraint.
And besides, she needed to see him, for Mr. Freeman’s sake. She needed to see Trent one more time.
Diandra flipped open her computer, checked Trent’s Twitter feed. Thank God for Foursquare, and the idiots who used it. Right now, it was telling her—along with his thirty-five hundred other followers—that he was at a Starbucks, just a few blocks from where he lived. Along with a tweet: The chairs here hurt my ass. Seriously—was this guy allergic to privacy, or what?
In twenty seconds, another tweet popped up: Headin’ home.
If there’s one thing life had taught Diandra Marie about men, it was that there was much to be gained—much—from their stupidity.
Diandra checked herself in the mirror. The jeans worked, but she definitely needed to change her top. She stripped off the tired old “I heart NY” sweatshirt she was wearing, and chose something shinier—a low-cut, hot
pink angora sweater that always got her line-cuts at the movies. It worked with the white lace push-up, so she changed into that, too. She applied matching hot pink lipstick, brushed through her pale blonde hair, slipped into matching Steve Madden heels and checked herself again . . .
“Fill in the blanks,” she whispered. Diandra threw on her coat, grabbed her bag, and headed out into the brisk Christmasy morning, preparing for her role.
Chapter 15
The Tarry Ridge station was as empty as you’d expect a suburban police station to be on a Sunday morning—just Sally the desk sergeant and a skeleton crew of uniforms. Nick Morasco was glad of it. Cliché as it sounded, he needed to be alone with his thoughts.
“Catching up on things?” Sally asked him when he walked in. She was riveted to her computer screen—online Scrabble, it looked like. The question was more a clearing of the throat than anything else, and so Morasco cleared his throat right back at her.
“Yep.”
He headed for his desk, passing a couple of new uniforms, who stood up a little straighter when they saw him. The Neff case had given Nick a type of luster that he still wasn’t comfortable with. Throughout his career, he’d been told time and time again he didn’t look like a cop—that he’d fit in much better in a room full of philosophy professors, which he never knew whether to take as a compliment. (He was guessing no.) But still, he was used to it. He wore his dad’s old tweed coats out of sentimentality and laziness and went too long between shaves and haircuts, and for that, he got mocked sometimes. He didn’t care. The eye rolls he could handle, as opposed to salutes. And these two new uniforms had just, if he wasn’t mistaken, saluted him.
“Hello, Detective,” said the taller one—a chubby, carrot-haired kid with pinkish skin and beads of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No thanks.”
“Let me know if you change your mind, sir.”
Morasco sighed. Sir. Yeah, he definitely preferred the eye rolls.
He booted up his computer. Take care of the easy stuff first. He went onto the national law enforcement database to see if there was a CCH for Robin “RJ” Tannenbaum. A CCH, or Computerized Criminal History, was really just a fancy name for a rap sheet, and he could have made Carrot-Top’s day by asking him to look this one up. But Nick was selfish with the chores today. The thing was, he liked to be useful while forestalling the inevitable. Plus, he felt like helping Brenna for a change. Personally doing something to help her—rather than keeping things from her.
The Tannenbaum info came up quickly, with just one arrest. Three years ago. Breaking and entering. Dismissed. At the time of his arrest, RJ had been forty-two—arrested over something you’d ground a sixteen-year-old for. Not a robbery, but a B&E. He was caught in the master bedroom. Just standing there. Alone. A prank. A dare. Morasco sighed, thinking about poor, withered Hildy Tannenbaum, how she’d blamed the break-in on peer pressure.
Were all mothers of grown losers completely deluded?
He wondered how much money Hildy had wired Robin over the years, which made him think of his own mother, continually making up excuses for his older brother, who was never where he should be. Couldn’t even be bothered to visit Dad when he was dying in the hospital, and yes that was twenty years ago, but Nick hadn’t forgiven him. There wasn’t a statute of limitations on being that much of an asshole.
How much had Mom invested in Seth, financially and emotionally, to get nothing in return?
When it came to people like that, Nick was with Pokrovsky. He didn’t care how many dead bodies the guy had stuffed in his window seat, he’d love to stick his older brother in a steel cage for one hour with Yuri Pokrovsky in his prime—maybe throw in old RJ for good measure. Morasco had a feeling that everyone in that cage would get exactly what he deserved.
He e-mailed the California officers who had filed the CCH, asked them if they could send him back a copy of the whole report, along with any other information they might have on the break-in. Then he sat back in his chair, thinking of ungrateful children. And then, just children.
If he had lived, Morasco’s son, Matthew, would be close to thirteen years old right now—the same age as Maya, edging toward the verge of adulthood. He tried not to wonder what Matthew would be like as a child or as a teen, or what his own life would be like with his boy a part of it. But if he had known those things . . . If he could feel what it was like to be a parent to someone old enough to screw things up, then he might be able to understand his mother or, for that matter, Hildy Tannenbaum. Far as Nick could tell, Pokrovsky was childless, too.
He looked at the clock. Noon already. He slid open his desk drawer, took out the letter. He’d read it many times since it arrived here at the station two days ago. Yet still, he felt compelled to read it again, as if maybe the typewritten words had rearranged themselves in his absence to mean something different.
Dear Det. Morasco:
I phoned you a month ago with no response. Perhaps you didn’t get the message. At any rate, I am dictating this letter to my niece, who has been instructed not to tell anyone. I’m dying. That isn’t the secret here. It is, however, my reason for wanting to get in touch with you, urgently. It is my reason for needing to relay to you this piece of information which I’ve kept secret for many years. It concerns Brenna Spector. I am aware, through the news, that you are friends. You can tell her, or not tell her. Use your judgment. I do, however, want to give you the option.
I must tell you in person. I don’t want this information to get into any other hands but yours . . .
Morasco skimmed to the bottom of the letter—to the shaky signature.
Detective Grady Carlson.
Morasco knew the name. He’d heard Brenna say it, repeatedly. In 1981, Grady Carlson had been with the Pelham Bay Precinct, the head investigator in Clea’s disappearance. He’d come up with nothing. He’d been rude to Brenna, to her mother. Grady Carlson was the most unhelpful cop I’ve ever met in my life, Brenna had told Nick. And no offense, Nick, present company excluded and all, but for me, that is really saying something.
“Are you sure I can’t help you with anything, Detective?” Carrot-Top asked, looming over him like an unpleasant thought.
Morasco exhaled. He wasn’t being fair. “Actually, you can,” he said. In his coat pocket, he was still carrying the picture of Robin Tannenbaum that Brenna had given him. He plucked it out, handed it to the kid, along with the address of the gas station in White Plains where he’d filled up on October 9. “This guy was last seen at this gas station in early October. Can you call the White Plains station, e-mail them the photo, find out if anyone has seen him?”
Carrot-Top looked as though he’d just won the lottery. “Of course!” He practically shouted it.
“Thanks . . . what’s your name?”
“Danny Cavanaugh.”
Morasco looked at him. “You related to Wayne Cavanaugh—detective from Mount Temple?”
He grinned. “That’s my grandpa,” he said. He looked about three years old.
“Small world, Westchester County.”
“Yeah. I’ll get right on this, then.”
Morasco nodded. “Thanks, Officer . . .”
“Danny.” He cleared his throat. “Dan.”
“Oh, and also, he may have a beard now. And he’s got a very expensive camera. The kind a professional moviemaker would have.”
“Got it!” Dan leaped over to his desk to make the calls. Literally leaped. That enthusiasm, Morasco thought. That feeling that the world was yours for the taking if you just worked hard enough—why was that a feeling only young cops had?
The thing was, this work beat you down quickly. That was a cliché, too, Nick supposed. But clichés are clichés because they’re widely known truths, which, again, is another cliché.
You go into police work thinking you can save lives, and more often than not, you come out of it like Grady Carlson, dictating letters from some hospital roo
m, trying to make up for all the damage you’ve done. Maybe it wasn’t just police work that beat the enthusiasm out of you. Maybe it was life.
Just yesterday, Brenna had said, If I can find Lula Belle, I might be able to find my family. The hope in her voice was so contagious that, for a moment, Nick had forgotten about the phone call, the letter . . . Was that hope keeping Brenna going, or was it holding her back even more than her memory? And either way, why did it have to be Nick’s job to crush it?
You should know that Brenna and her sister are both pathological, Evelyn Spector had told him, once she was full of wine and Brenna out of earshot. Those girls have a gift for destruction that runs through their veins. Brenna will destroy you if you give her a chance. It’s not her fault. It is genetic.
Not true, Evelyn, Nick had thought, even then—just a few hours after he’d gotten that first phone message from Grady Carlson. It’s you and the world that want to destroy your daughter. Not the other way around.
Morasco glanced at the clock on his computer again, then called Roosevelt Hospital, asked for Grady Carlson’s room. “He’s moving out to hospice later today,” the nurse said. “But if you get here within the hour, you can visit with him.” Morasco grabbed his coat and headed out the door, uncertainty tugging at him. He needed to know what Carlson’s secret was—that was a given. But maybe he wouldn’t tell Brenna about it. No one was forcing him to tell.
“Incense, Trent? Really?” Brenna had just been let into Trent’s apartment after a five-minute delay at his front door. At the time she thought maybe she’d interrupted a nap. But looking around the place—so much neater than it had been during her last visit on April 24, and with the lights dimmed and a half-empty glass of wine on the kitchen counter next to Trent’s boob-shaped coffee cup, not to mention the telltale stick of jasmine incense burning at the center of the stove—she was sure it was a lot more than a nap she interrupted. “I thought I told you to get some rest.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Trent stared at the floor. “I lit that incense because it smelled like ass in here.”
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