The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  His phone was buzzing. It would be Natalie attacking/disparaging/threatening him. It could be his wife, assuring him that Violet had checked in, that she was fine. But no, he knew it was his former girlfriend, spewing her venom and bile. The sound set his teeth on edge. He ignored it, drank more Scotch.

  Fuck it. He was too wound up to stay here. There was a jazz bar on East Eighty-Ninth. Music always relaxed him when he was embroiled in a tough case and would do the same for him now. He could walk there, find a dark corner table, let the music and the booze work their magic. And then, when he was calmer, he’d walk home and sleep.

  When he woke in the morning, Natalie would be dead.

  45

  * * *

  Green Eyes

  Nat should have gone home, should have washed the streaks of makeup from her face or taken a cold shower. She should have scrubbed Gabe’s blood from under her fingernails, eaten something, or called her mother. But she did none of those things. The anger vibrating through her being was arousing, almost sexual. It felt good to hate Gabe, to plot his destruction. It made her feel connected to him, in some fucked-up way. She wasn’t ready to let it go.

  A block from where her lover had abandoned her crying and shrieking on the street was Ninth Avenue. Nat walked to it, headed toward Hell’s Kitchen and its array of bars and restaurants. She’d wiped away the smudges of mascara, blush, and bronzer with a tissue, leaving her face devoid of makeup. She no longer looked like the perfect, phony doll Gabe had fallen for; she looked like herself.

  The venue she selected was an odd mix of old-timey saloon, hip eatery, and sports bar with mounted TVs airing MMA fights and baseball. But it would serve the purpose. She found a lone stool at the crowded bar and ordered a rusty nail and a shot of vodka. The tattooed bartender didn’t bat an eye at her strong order and didn’t ask for ID. Nat liked this place already.

  “Cheers,” she said, when he slid the small glass of vodka toward her. She downed it easily and waited for Gabe’s favorite cocktail. Setting her phone on the bar, Nat checked her text messages. Nothing from Violet. It was confounding. Had the girl reconciled with Fern? Or had Gabe come clean to his wife and daughter already? No, not yet. He would fall on his sword in person. Or more likely, spin his web of lies. If Nat could get to Violet before Gabe got back to the Hamptons, she would still have a chance to wound him. She texted Violet again.

  Would love to see you

  The rusty nail materialized, and she took a large swallow. It tasted like a brew of gasoline and paint thinner. How had she convinced herself she liked these? But the burning liquid stoked the flame of hatred in her belly, so Nat downed it and ordered another. Next to her, a couple of tourists, middle-aged women from Nebraska in town for a “girls’ weekend,” drank white wine. They attempted to spark up a conversation with her but soon abandoned their efforts. Nat gave off an aura of drunken hostility.

  She was on her fourth drink (fifth if she counted the vodka shot) when she felt the man’s gaze upon her. He was at the end of the L-shaped bar, drinking alone. He was in his late thirties, a swarthy, pockmarked face beneath a shaved head. He was unremarkable, except for his light green eyes, and the way they darted away when she looked at him. Like most young women, Nat was accustomed to unwanted attention, to leering looks and lascivious smiles. But this man wasn’t flirting with her. If he had been, he would have met her stare. A bristling sensation crawled up the back of her neck. She waved for the bill.

  * * *

  It was after eleven when she stumbled onto the street; too early to go home, but she had to get out of that place, away from the shady man sitting at the end of the bar. Glancing over her shoulder, she ensured he hadn’t followed her outside. He hadn’t. Perhaps she’d imagined his nefarious interest? Gazing down the street, she weighed her options. There were more bars, more restaurants. She could slip inside, find another stool, order another glass of poison. And then, on the next block, she noticed a velvet rope, a huge bouncer in head-to-toe black. A nightclub.

  She hadn’t gone dancing since she met Gabe. He was conservative, older, would have been out of place in the hot, hedonistic club scene. But Nat would fit right in. She lurched toward the doorway, eager to lose herself in its cavernous anonymity. The big man standing sentry gave her a quick once-over and unclipped the rope. She paid the twenty-dollar cover and was ushered into the sanctified space.

  The club was humid and dark, loud and overstimulating. It was packed with partiers, though it was Sunday. This crowd didn’t hold down nine-to-five jobs. They were students and servers, cooks and creatives. This was where a girl her age should spend her nights, not at jazz clubs or French bistros, not in bed with a man older than her father. These were her peers, her people. Nat pushed her way toward the bar and ordered another vodka shot, and a vodka cooler. Downing the shot, she took the bottle and hurtled to the dance floor.

  She was not a huge fan of EDM, but it was working for her tonight. She was losing herself in the frenetic rhythm, melding into the mass of gyrating bodies. She danced for twenty minutes or two hours, she didn’t know. There were hands on her waist, but she was okay with it. Many of the clubgoers were high on ecstasy or molly, the drug-induced serotonin surge making them touchy-feely. It was harmless. She brought the bottle to her lips, swallowed the last drops of the sickly sweet beverage.

  A woman in a silver shift dress with dark skin and white teeth was dancing with her, smiling at her. Nat smiled back, feeling flattered, warm, welcome. The woman made her think of Violet, tall and pretty, the desirous look in her eyes. The lights were strobing to the beat, blinding Nat, blurring the faces around her. Only the silver woman and her bright smile were distinguishable. The hands on her waist (were there just two, or were there more?) were roaming now, touching her in places she didn’t want to be touched. She drank more, tried to relax, to go with it, but she couldn’t. The air was thick with perfume and sweat and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. Panic was pressing down on her chest, the wall of bodies closing in on her, drowning her. And then, a flash of green eyes.

  She pushed through the revelers, fleeing the dance floor. She needed to leave, urgently. Where was the door? Her heart was skittering and racing, her lungs screaming for air. She couldn’t see, was struggling to walk. She was drunk, too drunk. But something else was wrong, making her tremble and vibrate. Had she been drugged? But why? By whom? Was she the random victim of some club pervert? Or had the man with the green eyes followed her here, targeted her? The faint red glow of the exit sign entered her field of vision, and she lunged toward it, finally, gratefully, bursting out into the night.

  The street was quieter now, belying the bedlam behind the double doors. Nat stumbled down Ninth Avenue, away from the club. Her heart continued to flutter, her lungs gulping in the moist night air. The area felt unfamiliar, strange and foggy, like she was viewing it through a greasy lens. Her legs were weakening, and she wouldn’t be able to walk much farther. She needed help. She needed Gabe.

  She wanted him to come, to wrap his strong arms around her, to tell her she was safe. She wanted to climb into his big town car, wanted Oleg to chauffeur them uptown to Gabe’s apartment. There, Gabe would make her tea and tuck her into his comfortable bed. She would call him, and he would rescue her. He had always been there when she needed him. Her small purse dangled from her shoulder, her phone inside it. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper. And then she remembered.

  Gabe didn’t love her anymore. He had abruptly ended their relationship—without kindness or explanation. He’d faked a reunion, lied to her, manipulated her, even threatened her life. The hatred came rushing back like a tsunami. Despite her muddled brain, her heart muscle remembered.

  Fuck him. Fuck Gabe.

  She hated him so much she could kill him. If she went home and got her gun, she could find him, and shoot him. She could blow his fucking head off. And she would enjoy it.

  A yellow taxi was moving slowly down the street, looking for patrons in need of a ride home.
She raised her arm, but the weak appendage would barely move past her shoulder before flopping back down, dead and useless. But the cab had spotted her, was slowing down. She staggered toward it, her limbs as awkward as a baby fawn’s. But she made it. She got into the back seat and closed the door behind her.

  “Take me to the West Twenties first,” she slurred, giving the driver her address. “And then take me uptown.”

  46

  * * *

  Blood

  Nat woke up in a strange room. But it wasn’t a strange room; it was her apartment. It took her a moment to acclimate to the familiar surroundings from an unfamiliar vantage point. She was on the floor in the entryway, still in the cute spring dress she’d put on to meet Gabe. There was a small puddle of sick beside her, and streaks of blood on the hardwood floor. Her hands and her knees smarted. Her head pounded. Her stomach churned.

  She tried to stand, but she was weak and dizzy. But she needed to get away from the vomit and the blood, their pungent and metallic scents. Half sitting, she dragged herself on one elbow and one hip, toward the bathroom. There, she turned on the shower, tore the slip of a dress from her sticky body, and climbed into the tub.

  The water pelted her huddled form as she sat on the cool porcelain. If she tried to stand, she would fall, but she needed to wash away the filth and grime of the night before. What had happened to her? How had she gotten home? She felt battered and numb; she knew something very bad had taken place the night before. But what? She remembered the fight with Gabe at the end of the High Line, drinks at a bar, a man with green eyes. She remembered stumbling into a nightclub, ordering a drink and then . . . ? And then a frightening void.

  Blood was swirling in the water, circling the drain. Her hands and knees were raw and scraped, her chin, too. But there was so much blood. Too much blood. Had she gotten her period? She was too weak to check. Despite the warm water, she was shivering uncontrollably, her head still throbbing. Someone had drugged her, had slipped something into her drink. And then what? A sob shuddered its way out of her throat, a tortured, guttural sound. She had been hurt and abused, and she had no one to help her.

  With tremendous effort, she turned off the water and climbed out of the tub. Her hair was matted and wet, unwashed, dripping in her face. She pulled a towel off the rack and patted at her bruised body. She tried to wrap the soft cotton around her slick form, but it required too much coordination and strength. Naked, she dragged herself out of the bathroom.

  All she wanted was to reach the bed, to go back to sleep for days, weeks, months. Her purse was tossed on the floor, close to where her inert body had lain, next to the vomit and blood. Inside was her phone, her lifeline. She wanted to call Gabe. Or her mother. Even the police. She wanted to check her text messages to see if Gabe had reached out. She wanted to apologize to him, to make everything better. She wanted to find out who had done this to her and why. But she couldn’t. Her inflamed and poisoned body craved sleep above all else.

  Crawling up on her bed, naked and wet, she slept.

  47

  * * *

  The Knock

  When she woke, it was still light. Or was it light again? She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep—a couple of hours? A day? Longer? Her wet hair had dried into an unintentional beehive, her bloody hands and knees had crusted over. Her throat screamed for water, and her bladder was full to bursting. But the pounding in her head had not receded. If anything, it was louder and more tangible. Because it wasn’t in her head. It was at her door.

  The words became audible then, a female voice.

  “New York Police Department. Open up, Ms. Murphy.”

  Her first instinct was relief: the police knew what had happened to her the other night, were here to get her statement. They would arrest the bastard who had drugged her; they would make him pay for what he had done to her. But how did they know?

  “Coming!” she cried, but her parched throat would not cooperate. The pounding continued.

  She found her robe in a pile of clothes at the end of her bed and wrapped it around her naked body. Her head was still aching, throbbing in unison with the fist on her door. She had to let them in, had to make the noise stop. Side-stepping the puddle of bodily fluids coagulating in the entryway, she opened the door.

  “Natalie Murphy?” It was a woman, in a blazer and pants, sensible shoes. She had dark hair and dark eyes that emanated both strength and weariness. Behind her was a big man, his chubby red face blooming like a rose from a too-tight collar, and a younger man in uniform.

  It hurt Nat’s throat to articulate the word. “Yes.”

  “We’d like to talk to you about the death of Gabriel Turnmill.”

  The words did not compute, Nat’s drug-addled brain could not make sense of them. Because Gabe wasn’t dead. She had just seen him the day before. Or the day before that. Or was it two days ago? They had argued, yes, but he had stormed off, very much alive. And then she had gone drinking and clubbing and then . . . And then what? What had she done?

  She stepped back, tried to shut the door in the cops’ faces, but they were faster and stronger. The woman muscled her way inside, the men on her heels. Nat scrambled backward, stepping in the puke and blood, losing her balance, falling to the floor. Her bladder released then, hot urine soaking her robe.

  The officers surveyed the apartment, taking in the filth, the chaos, the smell.

  “Jesus Christ,” the fat guy muttered.

  The female detective snapped, “Get dressed.” Then she turned to a uniformed officer, said something about a warrant and evidence, but Nat didn’t take it in. She was scrambling through the mess for some clothes, tears streaming down her cheeks. This couldn’t be real. Gabe couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t have anything to do with it. It didn’t make sense, none of it did. She needed to remember.

  The men left the room, allowing Nat to dress. The female cop tossed her a tea towel, and Nat dried the pee off her legs, her humiliation extreme. She pulled on a bra, a pair of sweats, and a T-shirt. The clothes smelled funky, the pants had food on them, pizza sauce by the look of it, but it didn’t matter. As Nat dressed, the woman with the dark eyes introduced herself as Detective Correa. Her tone had softened with her colleagues out in the hall.

  “I know you’re upset, and I know this is scary,” she said, “but we’ll go to the station and have a little chat. I’m sure we can get this all sorted out.”

  Nat nodded tearfully, but Gabe was dead. How could they sort that out?

  The Tenth Precinct was just a couple of blocks from Nat’s apartment. She had strolled by the Italian Renaissance–inspired building so many times, the officers congregating outside its doors nodding hello, wishing her a good night. She’d found them intimidating, attractive, fascinating—big-city cops like in all the TV shows. Despite the proximity, she was put in the back of a squad car. It would have been humiliating to march her through the streets like a criminal. Because she was innocent. She had to be.

  Inside the Chelsea station, it was bright and bustling, full of officers in uniform and not. There were other people, too. . . . Attorneys? Or suspects? Or loved ones of the accused? Nat didn’t know. How could she know? She’d never been inside a police station in her life, had certainly never been taken in for questioning. But here she was, Detective Correa’s proprietary hand on Nat’s upper arm, steering her through the desks, toward a destination at the back.

  It was almost a relief when the woman led Nat into an airless room and closed the door on the cacophony outside. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating a table with a notepad and pen, a paper cup of water. Nat chose the chair against the wall, facing the door. She guzzled the water, soothing her scorched throat but making her stomach churn. When had she last eaten? What day was it? She noticed the one-way glass embedded on the wall as she sat and knew she was being watched, likely recorded. But that was okay because she had nothing to hide. Did she?

  “What happened to Gabe?” she blurted, tears filling he
r eyes. “Is he really . . . dead?”

  Correa sat across from her, gave her a maternal smile. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” She picked up the pen, slid the notepad closer to her. “Tell me about your relationship with Mr. Turnmill.”

  “We’re friends.”

  “How did you meet?”

  Nat’s heart rabbited in her throat. She didn’t want to admit the origins of their relationship. It sounded debauched and sleazy, possibly even illegal. The detective sensed her hesitation.

  “I know this is rough, Natalie, but we want the same thing here. We want to find out what happened to Gabe. It’ll really help us if you’re honest.”

  It was an interrogation tactic, possibly even a trap. But Nat didn’t know how to protect herself because she didn’t know what she had done. Gabe was dead; she needed to know how, and why. And she wanted to talk to this strong woman with the soft eyes, wanted Detective Correa to help her. She swallowed.

  “I met him through a website.”

  “What’s the name of the website?”

  Nat told her. The detective jotted it down. “Does this site match up wealthy men with girls who want to make some extra money?”

  “Yes.”

  “So is that the relationship you had with Gabriel Turnmill? Sugar daddy and sugar baby?” She was matter-of-fact, no judgment.

  “At first,” Nat said. “But then we fell in love.”

  Correa kept writing, didn’t look up. “Did you know he was married?”

  “No,” Nat said, tears slipping from her eyes. “I found out later.”

  “That must have made you angry.”

  Nat was not that naive, not that stupid. “It hurt me,” she retorted.