Under Water

by Casey Barrett

“I didn’t,” I said. “Go ahead and search it. You’ll find my hound, Elvis, on the couch. And an empty bottle of bourbon. That’s about it.”

  The detectives exchanged a look of irritation, deliberating silently how to proceed. This little drama was getting old. I helped them along. “Look,” I said. “We both want the same thing—to find the girl. I’m sorry I grabbed a few of her pills. She won’t miss them. Just tell me how I can help, and I’ll stay out of your way.”

  Sullivan let out a low simmer of steam. He straightened up in the chair and nodded once to his partner, giving her the floor. “You can help,” said Miller, stretching the word out into two syllables, “by being truthful with us. By turning over everything you lifted from Madeline McKay’s apartment. And after that, you can go away and leave this to the professionals.”

  “Hey Duck, your partner, what’s her name again?” asked Sullivan. “Cassandra Kimball, is it?” There was a sudden glimmer to his eye, a rising giddiness to his voice. “She’s one of them dominatrix ladies, right? I mean, in her day job, when she’s not helping you snoop around. Goes by the name of Mistress Justine?” Sullivan showed me a mouthful of yellowed teeth with deposits of hard candies stuck in the crevices. “She, like, beats men for money? You into that stuff, Duck? You like to get whipped by your lady friend?”

  “Don’t be ashamed, Sully,” I said. “If you want a good railing from my partner, just ask for it. You look like the type.”

  Chapter 12

  I sucked back the rest of the Pabst and left twelve bucks on the bar. Staggering out into a hard sun, I found a cab heading up First Avenue, collapsed in the back and gave the cross streets. The city swept by off balance as we traveled north. The cheap booze burned in my belly. I should have eaten something. This publicity in the Post was bad for business. No one hired a finder that couldn’t keep his cases out of the papers. My clientele worshipped privacy like a religion. If they wanted a reality show circus, they’d bring their problems to the cops.

  The McKays knew all about the invasion of cameras. Their saddest moments, grieving a father and a husband, had been captured for the world to see, spun into grand Olympic drama. That was the contract you made with greatness. Charlie had touched the wall first in a few very important swimming races; the national anthem had been played in his honor several times; billions watched and were inspired. As such, the champion’s family was forced to open its doors to the curious masses. When they discovered cancerous tragedy behind it all, well, all the better. And now the cameras were back, with Charlie and Margaret at the center of another family drama. Except this time it was scandal for sale, not inspiration. The daughter, the forgotten sister of the champion, was damaged and missing and suspected of murder. Her best friend lay in the hospital, an unsuccessful suicide.

  I closed my eyes and listened to the chatter of Taxi TV as we stopped and started through the honking gridlock of midtown. A chaos of claustrophobic impatience, I felt sorry for the poor saps forced to work each day in this stressed and soaring part of town. We made it, finally, past 57th and picked up speed as we entered the Upper East Side, the scarred landscape of my youth. I asked the cabbie to let me off two blocks early on 66th so I could walk off the booze. Not that Cass would be fooled.

  I found her in a bright, sad waiting room on the fifth floor of the hospital. NY1 aired at low volume on the TV in the corner. Two young parents sat in a pale daze at the far end of the room; the mother was staring at the cover of a magazine without opening it, the father stared off into space. An elderly man sat nearby, looking at his feet in total stillness. He had the air of a prisoner waiting to be called for final rites. Cass sat among them like an angel of death. She was dressed in black from boots on up. Her black hair was combed straight down past her shoulders, parted down the middle. Crimson lipstick was painted on a mouth pressed tight in concentration. She was looking at her phone and tapping on the screen with sharp red nails.

  I touched her shoulder and gave her a start, but before we could speak, two doors opened and out stepped a big bearded man in jeans and flannel. His face was wrenched in exhaustion and worry; the weight of the world pressed down on broad sagging shoulders. He approached Cass in three long strides. She stood, and he pulled her into a tight embrace. He whispered something in her ear and she nodded, and he started to cry; then they separated and he looked away. She turned to me and blinked away wet eyes.

  “She’s going to be okay,” she said. Cass turned to the man by her side. “This is Michael Townes, Lucy’s father. Michael, this is my partner, Duck Darley.”

  I shook the big man’s hand. His grip swallowed mine, and he avoided eye contact. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  He nodded once, looked at me for the first time. “Looks like you had a bit of an accident yourself,” he said.

  “Slipped on the sidewalk.”

  “Right. Slipped and fell on a fist.” He managed a laugh. “I hate it when that happens.”

  Aware of his tears, Michael Townes gathered himself, stood a little straighter. He ran a hand through his beard and rubbed at his eyes. He searched the waiting room like a man lost in a foreign land.

  “Thank God she’s going to be all right,” said Cass.

  His expression fell from sorrow to anger. “She’s not all right,” he said. “My daughter tried to kill herself.”

  “It was a cry for help,” she said quietly. “And now you’re going to get her the help she needs.”

  Cass rubbed at his back. Townes swatted her arm down, moved a step away. “How do you know what she needs?” he asked. “You’ve never even met her.”

  “I was waiting to meet her, Michael. She might—”

  “He’s right, Cass,” I said. “We have no idea what she needs, or what’s going on.” I turned to Townes. “I hate to say it, but I have some experience with what you’re going through right now, with what your daughter tried to do. The last thing you want is for someone to tell you it’s going to be okay,” I told him. “At least in my experience.”

  “That’s the last thing you want to hear,” he said, making eye contact with his mistress.

  Cass seemed to shrink a step behind me, unaccustomed to a scolding from her longtime slave. She managed a submissive nod. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “We’ll get out of your way in a minute,” I said. “As Cass probably mentioned, we’ve been hired to find Lucy’s friend, Madeline McKay, who’s now a suspect in a murder.”

  “The boyfriend, “ he said. “I saw the papers.”

  “Lucy’s attempt and this killing could be connected. If possible, whenever she’s ready, we’d really appreciate it if we could talk to your daughter.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “You know, Madeline McKay can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. She was a horrible influence on Lucy.”

  “I’m sure she was,” I said. “The girl sounds like nothing but trouble. But now we need to find her before she pulls anyone else down with her. That’s why it’s really important that we speak to her, whenever she’s able.”

  He sighed. “I’ll ask her. If she’s up to it, maybe. Just one of you, though; my daughter doesn’t need a grilling, not now.”

  “Of course,” I said. “If it’s okay with you, it’s probably best if Cass speaks to her then. Woman to woman.”

  Townes looked back at his mistress. The energy crackled between them as the power dynamic began to shift back toward their preferred roles. “That’s fine,” he said.

  Then he stared off at NY1 in the corner: a report on the heroin epidemic said to be sweeping Staten Island. When it went to commercial, he turned back to us and said: “We used to be so close, Luce and I. I really thought I did right by her, after her mom died. She always got good grades, never gave me any trouble. She was a great kid. Until . . .” His voiced trailed off, remembering when the wheels began to come off his daughter’s life. “Until, I don’t know, a year ago? She started hanging out with that McKay girl. She stopped communicating with me. Her swimmin
g went south. Even Coach Marks couldn’t get through to her.”

  A young, white-coated doctor emerged from the double doors and approached our threesome. He addressed Townes. “We’re running a few tests,” he said. “She’s still getting her bearings.” He gave us a tight-lipped smile. “She’s a lucky girl.”

  * * *

  Outside, we crossed the hospital entrance and walked down 68th toward the water. Cass was already to the filter of her first cigarette and was fumbling with her pack for a second. She flicked the stub away, and we paused as she lit the next one. There were sounds of slow-moving traffic on the FDR below and smells of the East River, dirty and placid, with the wasteland of Roosevelt Island just beyond. I considered, not for the first time, that Cass and I shared little but the crimes and the confusion of others. We spoke and worked together when there was strife, when there was something to solve, dirt to dig up, someone to make pay. I had never been to her apartment, knew only that she lived in Chinatown. I knew nothing of her life outside of our partnership, apart from what she did at the dungeon, and even that was mostly conjecture. I thought I remembered her saying once that she was from Baltimore, but I couldn’t even be sure of that. Yet Cass had keys to my apartment and knew more than anyone else about my past and my problems. I always found the imbalance unsettling, but not enough to ask her any personal questions.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For what you said back there. I was just making it worse.”

  “No, you weren’t. You were just saying what everybody says. Sucks that I can speak from experience.”

  “You handled it perfectly, Duck. I know Michael appreciated it.” She took a quick drag, exhaled from the side of her mouth. “He’s always been one of my favorites. Such a kind, honest man, and when he really needed me . . .”

  “Stop beating yourself up,” I said. “He won’t hold it against you.”

  “I doubt that. I’m sure I won’t be seeing him again—in our professional capacity. Not that it matters. I’ll just miss him, I guess.” She drained the second smoke, flicked it into the street. We walked half a block in silence. “So, how were they?” she asked. “The demeaning detectives?”

  With a few exceptions, my partner shares my general belief about cops. They’re dim, rule-crazy men and women obsessed with their authority. To be fair, most also have a certain inherent sense of bravery and honor, some more than others, but they’re best treated like bears in the woods: powerful and capable of violence when threatened, always keep some distance.

  “They have Madeline on camera, leaving Fealy’s building that Monday, before she dropped out of contact.”

  “Jesus,” said Cass. “Then it had to have been . . .”

  “No, Fealy’s parents confirmed that their boy didn’t return from the Hamptons until the next day. They’re still determining the time of death. Had to have been sometime last week: they said he was dead for a few days before I found him.”

  “So, what was she doing there? She was distraught about something, and she goes and lets herself into her ex-boyfriend’s place?”

  “Too bad we can’t ask him.”

  “What else did they have to say?” she asked.

  “Apparently there’s a gap in the security footage in the lobby,” I said. “Something about an electrical problem in the building.”

  “For how long?”

  “They didn’t say. I was surprised they even offered that.”

  “Interesting.” She took a drag, held it in her lungs. “Anything else?”

  “They’re pissed I didn’t tell them about Madeline’s drug stash,” I said. “I took a few of her pills. They found my prints.”

  She stopped walking, gave me a disapproving look. “Why did you do that, Duck? What the hell were you thinking?”

  “When I took them,” I said, “I didn’t know Madeline was about to become the lead suspect in a murder investigation.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe not, but you still weren’t thinking. No, that’s not true. You were thinking—only about yourself,” she said, stalking off.

  I caught up to her at the dead end overlooking the FDR and the river. She was staring off across the water, a new unlit cigarette in her hand. A police boat moved against the current, headed south toward lower Manhattan. Planes drifted north over Queens, in their long queue toward La Guardia. Traffic slowed to a standstill on the FDR below us.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “It was stupid, I know that.”

  “You need help,” she said. “You used to have things under control, but now . . .”

  “Jesus, I just grabbed a few Vicodin,” I said. “It’s not like I’m jabbing needles in my arm. What’s with the judgment?”

  She ignored my question. “So, where you headed next? The nearest bar, or are you capable of doing some sober work?”

  “Work,” I told her. ”From here I’m headed over to see Charlie McKay at his office. He’s been storm calling since this morning. How ’bout you?”

  “I think I should hang here until Michael lets me talk to his daughter,” she said. “Then I thought I’d see what I can get out of the Schwartz kid.”

  Cass fished out her phone and tapped a quick text. “Had to cancel a session this afternoon,” she said. “A regular too. He is not happy.” She stared at the screen, read a reply, fired off another message.

  Her crimson lips parted, and she started to say something but swallowed it. We turned and headed back toward the hospital. She gave off a low heat next to me. There’s a hot energy that radiates off of certain women. They’re the ones that other ladies hate, the ones looked at with loathing and a jealous fear that sparks at first sight. Too tall, too striking, too in command of her own sexuality, a woman capable of taming the most unbroken man. In these women, there is a deep well of loneliness. They’re aware of the looks, the claws-out cattiness of fellow, lesser women. Men fear them, women want to be them and despise them instead. Cassandra Kimball’s cross to bear . . . We reached the entrance and stopped alongside a line of yellow cabs.

  “Check-in in a few hours?” I asked.

  She nodded, lost in thought, an emotionless look on her lovely face. I went in for a hug, and she went through the motions.

  “Jesus, Duck,” she said, pulling away. “You reek of booze.”

  Chapter 13

  The offices of Soto Capital were on West 57th, on the forty-fourth floor of a glass tower with 360-degree views. I was ushered upstairs with a security photo just as the markets were closing. The Soto receptionist—brunette, big-chested, Southern—greeted me with a flirty drawl and led me to a leather couch next to floor-to-ceiling windows. She asked if I’d like anything, then swayed back behind her desk, showing off an ass in slacks long accustomed to the eyes that followed.

  A large Andreas Gursky photograph of a frenetic trading floor was framed above the couch on the far wall. It was a vast, disorienting bird’s-eye view of money changing hands in a paper-bound past. Now the old exchanges were stripped down to skeleton crews as money was made or lost at the speed of Bloomberg based on intricate algorithms down halls like these. Out the windows, Central Park stretched out like a great green masterpiece, framed by the most valuable real estate on earth. The Hudson was visible to the west, with the George Washington Bridge out in the distance, the main northern artery in and out of this inscrutable island.

  “Hey, Duck, there you are,” said Charlie, hurrying toward me with manic energy. “Thanks for coming up. What a day, right? Fucking hell. It’s been intense. Come on back.”

  I followed him down the hall to the Soto trading floor where Charlie’s workstation was arranged with OCD precision. Other desks were littered with empty coffee cups and candy wrappers; Charlie’s had bottled water, Fiji, resting on a coaster and an untouched green apple. A pen and notepad were arranged parallel to the keyboard, in front of his Bloomberg terminal.

  “Markets just closed,” he said. “Woo! Hot damn, hell of a day.” He let out a sudden laugh and shook his head in disbelie
f.

  He had the buzzing aura of a poker player who’d just raked an all-in full house, knocking out a few players in the process. Charlie was dressed trader casual—pressed khakis, monogrammed white button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A navy blue blazer hung over the back of his ergonomic swivel chair. His tasseled shoes looked handmade, with the soft pressed leather molded to his big, wide feet like royal clown shoes. He picked up the apple from his desk and bit into it with a crisp, juicy crunch that made other traders look in our direction.

  “What a fucking day,” he said again. “Sorry, Duck, I’m still coming down. Give me a sec while I pack up my stuff. We’re supposed to have a postmortem meeting down in the conference room in a minute, but Danny said it was cool if I missed it. I gave him the download on you.”

  As if he’d been waiting offstage for his cue, a slim, black-haired man appeared at the end of the hall and approached us in quick purposeful strides. As he moved he seemed to vibrate on the silent frequency of serious wealth. He had an irrepressible smile across an intense, bony face. His eyes did not share the joy; they were ink black and untrusting. He wore a bespoke black suit over a black shirt, no tie. He had a dark complexion, an exotic ethnicity of something unplaced.

  “Master McKay,” he said, squeezing Charlie’s shoulder. “A fine day indeed, a very fine day. Well done, my man.”

  “Thanks, Danny,” said Charlie. “I was dialed in today.”

  His boss gave a low whistle. “That you were, that you were,” he said. Then he turned to me and extended a long, bony hand. “Daniel Soto,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. You must be the investigator, Dirk Darley, was it?”

  “Duck,” I said, returning the too-long shake. “What did Charlie do today?”

  We both turned to him. Charlie took another bite of his apple and smirked. “What did he do?” asked Soto. “He made this firm a great deal of money, a great deal indeed. And my definition of a ‘great deal’ is higher than most, I can assure you. I am told it is our third biggest P and L in the firm’s history.”