As the sun sinks in the sky and casts beams of golden light in my bedroom, I alternate between seething—how can he leave? How can he stand to tuck tail and run?—and despairing. Sidekick watches me pace my room, watches me do the only thing a person can do at a time like this. Cry out to God.
If, indeed, you can muster the belief that he’s there in a time like this.
“Want to get some fresh air?”
I look up from my book and find Nick standing in the doorway of the living room, hands in his trouser pockets, eyes red. “No, thank you. I’m busy.”
“Waiting for the phone to ring doesn’t make you busy.”
Heat blossoms on the back of my neck. “I’m reading.”
“And when was the last time you turned the page?” Nick doesn’t wait for an answer, which is good, because I don’t have much of one to give him. “Don’t you think that new mutt of yours could use some exercise? Just a quick walk around the block.”
I glance at Sidekick, who has wedged himself between my feet. “Fine.” I snap shut my book. “A quick walk.”
It could be good for me to get away from the telephone. I’ve called Mariano twice now to tell him about the letter from Matthew and heard nothing back. Is it his day off? Is he busy with another case? Or is it that I’ve simply misunderstood the dynamic between us? Perhaps I think of Lydia’s case as being more important to Mariano than it actually is. After all, I have one person I’m looking for, and heaven only knows how many cases Mariano has piled on his desk.
I pull on my coat from last season, ignoring the new fur-trimmed one Father and Jane bought to replace the one I loaned to Lydia. The department store tags still hang from the unwanted garment.
Sidekick seems more content on the leash than he does in the house, and he trots alongside me as we exit.
“Thank you for coming with me.” Nick’s voice has a rattle to it as he jogs down the front steps. “I couldn’t take being in the house any longer. All this waiting . . . I feel like I might go mad.” When he looks at me, with circles under his red eyes, I wonder if I look as dreadful as he. “I know you know how I feel about Lydia.”
“I do.”
His larynx bobs. “Does she know?”
“I don’t think so.”
He exhales slowly. “It seems unreal. Like a nightmare.” He turns up the collar of his coat against the nip of the breeze. “What’s going on down there?”
Three houses down, at the LeVines’ fancy stone residence, men in bowler hats and long coats loiter on the sidewalk.
“I bet it’s reporters.” Nick adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “I’ve seen some out here before. Never like this though.”
My stomach lurches. Why would there be a group of reporters outside, unless—
The same fear thumping in my heart seems to streak across Nick’s face, and despite the skirts of my dress, I match my strides to his as we hurry along the sidewalk. Sidekick trots along, tongue hanging out, clearly enjoying the accelerated pace.
I scan the faces for clues of how grave the newsbreak is, but no one seems particularly grim. If Lydia were found dead, however, would the reporters be grim? Or would they—
Nick clasps a hand on the arm of a reporter scribbling on a notepad. “Hey, old boy. What’s all the fuss about around here?”
Nick’s voice is so chummy, I think he must know the man, but the reporter only gives him a cursory glance. “I don’t know who you work for, sport, but I don’t hand out scoops to the competition.”
A man nearby snorts, “Scoop? Larry, every paper in town is here.”
I finally find my voice, loud and laced with desperation. “Is it Lydia? Is she . . . ?”
Silence ripples through the crowd of men.
Larry shakes his head, his gaze going soft. “No, miss. Nothing like that. It’s the family’s chauffeur. Up and left.”
The relief is dizzying. “Thank God.”
“You a friend of the family, miss?”
“Lydia’s my best friend.” The words earn me an elbow in my ribs from Nick. He appears to be trying to send me some kind of message through eye contact, but—
“Why do you think the chauffeur would have left? Did he and Lydia have some kind of relationship?” Larry has a fresh page open, and holds his pencil poised to document my words.
“I . . .”
“She’s not interested in being interviewed, thank you.” Nick’s hand grasps my arm, pulling me through the crowd of men. Sidekick seems intent on wedging himself between my legs, and Nick’s hand on my arm is the only thing that keeps me from falling when I stumble over him.
The reporters call out questions to me—Any theories on why the chauffeur left? Was Lydia unhappy? Did the chauffeur have a special interest in Lydia?—but Nick tucks me under his arm and pulls me through the crowd. Folded against him, the cigarette smell of his coat is cloying, but I don’t move away.
For a moment, I fear they’ll follow, but the reporters seem more interested in staying close to the LeVines’ house. When I glance over my shoulder, I see why—the distinctive touring sedan is parked outside the LeVines’ house. Mariano and O’Malley must be there to talk about Matthew.
Once we’ve turned the corner, Nick releases me. “You okay?”
I nod.
“You sure?”
I take in a wobbling breath. “For a moment, I was sure they were going to tell us that Lydia was dead. So, yes, I’m fine.”
Nick’s fingers tremble as they reach inside his breast pocket and retrieve his pack of cigarettes. “They’re like leeches.”
I take another deep breath. “It’s just their job.”
Nick lights his cigarette and inhales deeply. “What do you think about Matthew? Was he already planning to leave? Are they trumping up a bunch of nothing? Or . . . ?”
I glance at my brother. “Matthew wouldn’t have hurt Lydia. He . . . he cares about her.”
Nick’s expression is guarded as we turn down State Street. “Cares about her? Because she was his employer’s daughter, or . . . ?”
This is going to be splashed all over the papers anyway, right? Better that he hear it from me. “Cares about her as in the way you care about Lydia.”
Nick winces. “I suppose I can’t blame him for that.” He takes another long drag of his cigarette. “And what does she think of him?”
I swallow. “You’re asking me to betray my best friend’s confidence, Nick.”
He barks out a humorless laugh. “That’s answer enough right there.”
What can I say to that? Sidekick tugs toward a bush in the Barrows’ front yard, sniffs, and lifts his leg.
Nick drops his cigarette butt and steps on it with the toe of his loafer. “Why did Matthew leave, then?”
“It’s . . .” My mind whirls with the details of the letter that I’ve already read dozens of times since yesterday afternoon. “It’s complicated.”
“Well, I’m not some prodigy like Tim, but I imagine I can handle a few details about the private life of a servant.” Nick’s voice has a dangerous bite to it, one I haven’t heard for a very long time. Not since Mother died and we learned Nick dealt with grief by getting mean.
“Matthew left me a letter.” I try to summarize Matthew’s history in as few words as possible, but even then we’ve turned back onto Astor Street by the time I’m done.
“Have you told the police about this?”
“That’s why I’ve been sitting by the telephone. I left several messages for Mariano, but he hasn’t called me back.”
“Probably because you’ve pestered him to death.”
The comment cuts. Is it true? Did yesterday’s excursion in the North push Mariano over the edge? He was awfully quiet during the train ride back to school . . .
“You girls never seem to know how to fall for the right guy.” Nick jingles the loose change in his pocket. “What a mess.”
As our house comes into view, I spot a tall, feminine figure waiting by our front gate. “Who’s that?”
“Beats me.” Nick squints. “Friend of Jane’s?”
“Loitering outside our house?”
Nick shrugs.
As we draw closer, it’s clear that whoever she is, she’s waiting for us. She stands nearly as tall as my brothers, a brimmed cloche pulled low over her bobbed hair, and her coat collar turned up.
“Good day, miss.” Nick’s voice is jovial, a jarring juxtaposition to the sour mood he’s been in with me.
“Good day.” The woman’s words are soft and pleasant. “Sorry to intrude upon you like this.”
“No trouble at all. What can we do for you?”
She takes in a breath and seems to hesitate. Her gaze moves to me. “You’re Piper Sail, aren’t you?”
I tighten my grip on Sidekick’s leash, despite how he cowers at my feet. “I am.”
Her smile is tinged with sympathy, and she seems familiar somehow. “I wanted to apologize for my colleagues scaring you off earlier. I can imagine this week has been hard enough for you, with your best friend missing, and then to not even be able to take a walk in your own neighborhood . . .” She shakes her head. “Almost makes me ashamed to be a journalist.”
So that’s where I recognize her from. “You’re a journalist?”
She nods and sticks out a hand. “Alana Kirkwood. Kansas City Star. Nice to meet you.”
Sidekick’s leash is wrapped around my right hand, and I unwind it to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you too.”
Nick leans against the wrought iron fence. “Kansas City sent a reporter up to cover Lydia?”
Alana turns her large eyes toward him. She’s very striking. Probably serves her well in a profession dominated by men. “To cover Jacob Dunn, actually. Or Matthew, as you probably knew him. The chauffeur. He left behind some very angry, very powerful people in Kansas City, so it’s a public interest story for our readership.”
“You sure made it up here fast.”
Alana shrugs. “I’ll take any excuse I can to come to Chicago.” She gives Nick a slow wink that has me fighting off an eye roll, and then turns her smile to me. “Miss Sail, I want to tell your story, the way you want it told. I’ll even give you full access to the article before it’s published so you can be sure I got every detail right. We can start anywhere you like. Maybe with Jacob and where you think he might have gone—”
I hold up my hand. “I thought you came to apologize for your colleagues. Now you’re soliciting an interview?”
“I just thought—”
“I’m not interested in speaking to the press. Good day, Miss Kirkwood.”
“But it’ll help Lydia,” Alana calls after me. “Information you have could help me get to Jacob.”
That’s too irritating a comment to leave alone. “Helping you look good by getting Jacob is of no interest to me. Nor will it help Lydia, because I know he didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance. Put that in your article, Miss Kirkwood.”
I want to bang the gate door shut, but I can’t with Nick trailing after me. He calls a “Sorry” that Alana Kirkwood doesn’t at all deserve.
“Don’t ask me to go on any more walks,” I snap at my brother once the front door is closed behind him.
Nick only glares at me, as if I’ve somehow done something wrong. “I’m so surprised you’ve never been asked on a date, Piper. You’re such a pleasure to be around.”
I throw my shoe at his retreating figure, clocking him in the back of the head.
“Ow!” Nick whirls around, his eyes blazing. “Get control of yourself, Piper.”
As he stalks up the stairs, I lean against the wall. My breath comes in rapid gasps, and my eyes are unfocused. Nick’s parting words thump in my brain, and I try to talk my lungs into holding on to a breath of air instead of immediately casting it out.
I need to calm down. Lydia is still out there. She needs me to think clearly. She needs me to find her. I think of Mariano on Clark Street yesterday, taking deep breaths and encouraging me to do the same.
Slowly, my breathing eases to a normal pace.
I’m going to call and leave Mariano another message. And I’ll leave him another one tonight, if I have to. I don’t care if he does find me annoying. Lydia is worth far more than what other people think of me.
Walter clears his throat and shifts his hands on the steering wheel. “So. How was school?”
I look at him. Does he really think I’m in the mood to beat my gums about my school day?
Walter sighs as he veers onto Astor Street. “I only have a few days left in town. I just thought it would be nice to not spend the entire drive home in silence. Pardon me.”
“I haven’t been silent the entire drive.”
“True. You did speak to me long enough to find out if anyone called for you. That’s not exactly the type of . . .”
Walter’s words fade away when I see it—the touring sedan parked outside my gate.
Mariano is seated on the top step, and my heart seems to climb up into my throat. It’s the way he’s sitting—elbows on his knees, head drooped—that makes me shove open the door before Walter has come to a complete stop. That makes me ignore Walter’s hollering about being patient, letting him park the car.
“What is it?” I fumble with the gate latch and fling it open. Mariano stands, and I see his face is creased with fatigue and heartache. “Is there . . .” My vision has already blurred. “Is there news?”
“I’m so sorry, Piper.” His voice is graveled. Regretful.
Mariano swallows hard before saying the words I’ve dreaded since the moment we met. “We found her body.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Dead.
She’s dead.
She’s dead, and I can’t seem to cry.
I know Mariano is telling the truth. I know the truth is devastatingly unchangeable. But those facts just flutter around my head without landing on my heart.
I sink to the steps. “Where was she found?” My voice has a cold, unrecognizable quality to it.
“The river.”
I shiver as his words conjure images of Lydia’s pale-skinned body floating lifelessly in the murky water. “Here?”
Walter has joined us. “Let’s not do this now, Piper.”
At another time I would have snarled at him to not boss me around, but a numbness has spread throughout me. “When should we do it?” Walter doesn’t reply, and I look back to Mariano, waiting.
“They found her on Monday in the Lower West Side.”
Monday. He and I were pointlessly sniffing around the North on Clark Street. I think of his downcast expression when he rejoined me at the train station, after he’d called into the office. It matches the one he wears now. “That was the bad news, wasn’t it? When you called into work?”
Mariano nods.
“Do we know who did it?”
“Not yet.”
My nostrils flare with my exhale. Whoever did this is still walking around. The thought makes my nails dig into my palms. “What happened to her? Can they tell?”
He shifts his attention to Walter before looking back to me. “Maybe you should absorb the shock first, Piper.”
“He’s right.” Walter looks down the street, eyeing the mob of reporters outside the LeVines’ gate. “Let’s get you inside.”
“No, I want to know. I want to get it done with.”
Mariano’s gaze holds mine. “Are you sure?”
I’m not. I won’t be able to unhear those details. Won’t be able to unsee them play out in my imagination. But I also can’t find who did this—can’t bring him to justice—if I bury my head. “Yes.”
Mariano reaches inside his jacket pocket and withdraws a trifolded sheet of white paper.
“What’s that?” Walter asks.
But Mariano looks at me when he answers. “The coroner’s report.”
“You can’t let her see that!” Walter’s voice rises high with indignation. “Those aren’t details she needs.”
“
Maybe they’re details she wants,” Mariano says in that quiet but authoritative way of his. He holds out the piece of paper. “I removed the photographs.”
Walter paces several steps away, then several steps back, and then away again. His frustration is palpable.
I don’t open it, though. Just hold the paper between my thumb and forefinger. “I called you. A lot.”
“I wanted to call back. I was afraid I would say too much, and we didn’t know for sure yet.”
I run my fingers down the crease of the coroner’s report. “I had information.”
Walter stops pacing and stares at me.
Mariano frowns. “You didn’t say so in your message.”
“I didn’t know I had to bribe you to call me.” Anger bubbles in my stomach, but the words are still coming out calm and cold. “Matthew left me a letter before he blew out of town.”
Mariano whips his notebook from his breast pocket. “What’d it say? Can I see it?” He’s morphed from Mariano to Detective Cassano in less than a second.
As I summarize Matthew’s parting words, Mariano’s pencil scratches continually against his paper. I feel Walter gaping at me, much like Nick did when I told him everything on our walk. My words, and even Mariano and Walter, feel miles away from where my head is.
Lydia is dead. And just like with my mother, I can’t do anything. It’s done, and it’s forever.
“But he didn’t say where he was going?” Mariano asks.
Apparently, I had stopped talking. “No.”
“Any guesses? Anything you can think of from your time with him?”
I shake my head. “He was always very quiet. Very . . . careful.”
Mariano absently taps his pencil against the notepad. “Taking this into account . . . Well, Piper. He skipped town the same day we found the body. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you how this looks. He was the closest thing we had to a suspect even before an organized crime connection.” Mariano’s gaze goes unfocused as he stares off at nothing in particular. “Finnegans. Yet again.”
“But why would he give me that letter if he did it? Why would he have stuck around for so long after she went missing?”
The Lost Girl of Astor Street Page 14