212

by Alafair Burke

  But then, for whatever reason, she had not gone through with the purchases. Had she sensed that the market would slow? Did she know her mother’s physician would suddenly conclude that she could no longer negotiate living on her own?

  Now the savings account was gone, and Katie got by month to month, barely managing to cover her own mortgage, her mother’s assisted living, and the taxes on her parents’ Forest Hills home, which she was renting out for some extra income in the hopes that she could get more in a sale once the market turned around. She used credit cards as necessary to cover unexpected expenses and then “saved” as she could to pay down the balances. Just when she thought she might be caught up and could begin building a nest egg again, some other cost arose and she’d be back in the red.

  In short, Katie was well into adulthood and still playing financial Whack a Mole.

  She threaded the hooks of the earrings through each of her lobes, and then draped the necklace across her bare collarbone and clasped it beneath dark brown, wavy hair that fell just past her shoulders. She closed the jewelry drawer of her dresser, opened the next drawer down, and selected a black lace bra and matching thong bikini panty. She spritzed herself with a lavender-scented body spray that rested on top of the dresser, and then turned to the black cocktail dress already laid out on her bed.

  Before walking out of the apartment, she pulled a tube of lipstick from her metallic clutch purse and slid a gloss of berry stain across her full lips. She blotted her lips against each other, checking out her pout in a compact mirror for good measure before locking the bolt on her apartment door.

  On the elevator ride to the lobby, she began the transition into another persona. The vestiges of Katie Battle—devoted daughter, dogged real estate agent, incessant BlackBerry fiddler—began to melt away. She ran a dark burgundy fingernail across the beads of her necklace, felt the plunging neckline of her silk jersey dress, hugging the curves of her figure like a second skin. She stood up straighter. Taller. Pushed the locks of dark hair away from her heart-shaped face.

  By the time she completed her taxi ride down to 44 East Forty-fourth Street, her mental transformation was complete. Good-bye, Katie. Hello, Miranda.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  6:30 P.M.

  Jess didn’t know the real name of the man he knew as DJ Anorexotica, but did know that “An-ex,” as he also referred to himself, would be performing that night at a bar on the Lower East Side called Gaslight.

  Of course Jess could not bring himself to use the word performing to describe An-ex’s act without using air quotes. And he couldn’t use air quotes without grimacing at the fact that he was using air quotes.

  Jess was still complaining about accompanying Ellie on her mission when they emerged from the F train at Delancey and Essex. “You’ve got his picture. You know where to find him, doing that thing he calls performing. Why do you need me?”

  “Because you actually know the guy, and you’re not expected at the Shake Shack for another three hours.” Neither Ellie nor Jess could bring themselves to call the strip club where he worked by its actual name, so they enjoyed making up creative placeholders. “Besides, all you were going to do in the interim was watch that marathon of Real Housewives of Atlanta you’ve had clogging up the DVR for the last two weeks.”

  “Well, if it’s clogging up the machine, I should be at home watching important episodes, shouldn’t I?”

  “Jess, for me, seriously, quit with the bitching.”

  Most sibling relationships, like all relationships, involve a certain amount of give-and-take. But the balance of giving and taking between Jess and Ellie was sufficiently off kilter—in ways that both of them recognized—that the words “for me,” spoken by Ellie to Jess, usually did the trick.

  Ellie had her reasons for bringing her brother along on this trip, and that would have to be—and was—enough for Jess.

  The bar was a nondescript storefront with a heavy wooden entrance adorned by a burning gaslight. When Jess opened the door, a discordant blend of Spanish-feeling rhythms and cacophonous mechanical noises set to a techno beat spilled out.

  “I see that your scumbag of choice tonight has already begun making his noise,” Jess said.

  A small crowd of about a dozen people was dispersed loosely across an open rectangular dance floor between them and the stage. Three thin young women with an approximate collective height of eighteen feet who were certainly aspiring models lingered just inside the bar’s entrance. A couple stood closer to the bar: she in a turtleneck and plaid skirt, he in wide-wale cords and a pea coat, and both undoubtedly from the Upper East Side. Next to them were a couple of fifty-year-olds in black cotton, denim, and leather who looked like they could have hung out with Deborah Harry and the Ramones during their CBGB heydays.

  “Eclectic,” Ellie said.

  “This is the early-bird after-work crowd. You should come back in seven hours.”

  “So what’s the story on this place?”

  “Alternative. Underground.”

  “Like a rave?”

  She heard the group of models chuckle next to her. “Oh my God,” one whispered.

  “Well, guess I won’t be the happy little center of that Glamazon triangle tonight,” Jess said wistfully. “Raves, for the record, little sister, are so 1994. This place is a riff off of guerrilla gigs.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s not exactly easy getting a gig at a top bar in New York, so people go guerrilla, taking over venues that are already staged for another event—usually midtown corporate stuff or high-end Upper East Side fund-raiser shit. Anyway, you sneak yourself in. Leak word online to potential crashers who want to witness the scene. Then you go for it and hope for some attention. Gaslight sort of did the reverse a couple years ago, leaking the rumor that this was a place to be crashed for gigs. Show up and play, draw a crowd, see what happens.”

  “How can a performance be guerrilla if it’s basically invited?”

  “Well, it’s not. Gaslight’s really just an open mic bar with an edgier rep. You know something, El, this proves you haven’t been coming out enough since you met that Captain Justice of yours. Dog Park’s been playing here every couple of weeks for a few months now.”

  “And this guy?” She studied the light-skinned DJ spinning records from the elevated stage.

  “We hate him.”

  “I mean, does he play here a lot?”

  “Must. I think we’ve seen him here, like, three times already. This music’s shit, right?”

  She shrugged. “Interesting enough, I guess. A little weird. I can’t even tell what I’m listening to.”

  “That’s because he calls it art. He walks around the city with a computer recording street noises, then mixes it into his whole techno world music blend. It’s crap.”

  Ellie took a look around the half-filled bar. “Decent enough turnout for crap.”

  Jess made a sour face. “These people aren’t all here for him. Maybe those preppy douchebags over there. You only get a half hour at Gaslight unless the crowd gets so worked up that whoever’s supposed to take your spot decides it’s not such a great idea.”

  “OK, that’s a little guerrilla.”

  “Well, trust me, no one’s going to make a scene trying to buy more time for this Beck wannabe. Unless he’s come up with some new aural assault to close out with, I’m pretty sure this is his last song.”

  They waited while Keith mixed and scratched his way to a crescendo, then abruptly halted the music. The crowd clapped politely, and the DJ flashed a peace sign before starting to pack his turntables, laptop, and other gear into a trunk.

  Ellie nudged Jess, pushing him toward the stage.

  “Oh, my God. Can you at least put me on the department payroll for this?”

  She nudged him harder, and he led the way.

  The DJ immediately recognized Jess and greeted him with a nervous smile. “Hey, man.” He avoided eye contact by continuin
g to focus on the packing of his equipment. “I didn’t realize you guys were playing tonight.”

  “We’re not. I’m just hanging.”

  “Hi,” Ellie said, offering a friendly handshake and an enthusiastic smile. “I’m Jess’s sister. Ellie Hatcher.”

  “Keith Guzman.” Keith’s gaze shifted between her and her brother. “Sister, huh? Can’t say I can see the resemblance.”

  This wasn’t the first time this observation had been made. Long, lanky Jess with his straight dark hair and angular face, the petite but curvy little sister with blond waves and full lips. And the differences went beyond the physical. Jess was flaky like their mom, Ellie stubborn and determined like their father. Jess, light as bubbles. Ellie, rock solid. Jess, who didn’t see the purpose of coming here. Ellie, who now had the elusive Keith’s last name.

  “So, great music. Jess said you work sounds from the street into your mixes?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of my thing. An urban update on musique concrète.”

  “What is musique coquette?”

  “No, concrète. Like concrete. Literally translated, it’s concrete music. The original idea was that the components of music didn’t have to be singing or instruments. It started in Paris in the forties. The Beatles used it a little, but that was back when they had to use tapes. Now that everything’s digitized? It’s bananas, man. And I specifically use sounds from the streets of New York City. In theory I’m saying something important about the music of everyday life, like what Marcel Duchamp did for found art in the media of the tangible. It’s like found music.”

  Ellie nodded along with interest. “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Or,” Keith said with a laugh, “maybe it’s just a good jam.”

  “And you play your mixes directly from your computer?” Ellie eyed the Apple laptop that still rested on the table between them and Keith.

  “Yeah. The recordings are digitized so I can pretty much do whatever I want with them.”

  “You can’t do all of that with just this one little MacBook though, can you? I assume you have a bunch of stuff at home, too.”

  “Nope, just this,” he said, tapping the thin notebook.

  “Really, that’s all you’ve got? Just that one laptop?”

  “Yep. Maybe when I hit it big, you know.”

  “So,” Jess interrupted, “you got a girlfriend these days or what?”

  Ellie jerked toward Jess with a glare. Guzman apparently mistook her shocked expression. “Wow. Um, I’ve never seen a brother try to hook his sister up. Uh, I don’t know. Maybe you and I can—”

  “No, dude, maybe you can stop looking at my sister before you find yourself in a cell.”

  So much for her plan of flirting her way onto Guzman’s computer. She removed her shield from her purse and flipped it open for a quick view.

  “I need to talk to you about Megan Gunther.”

  “Yo, bitch. This is some serious bullshit.”

  “All right, Li’l Keith, you can drop the street act.” They stood on the relatively quiet sidewalk outside the club. Guzman had initially tried to resist, but then Ellie pretended to reach for one of the silver hoops in his lip, and he made his way out the door with her. Now polite and charming Keith Guzman had transformed into DJ Anorexotica, and Ellie could see why Jess had called him an annoying poseur. “When was the last time you had contact with Megan Gunther?”

  “I’ve moved on past her. Couldn’t you tell when I was getting ready to make a play on you?”

  “Sometimes the best way to move on is to hurt someone. Bad.”

  “Megan’s hurt?”

  Ellie was starting to wonder whether this guy had a serious case of multiple personality. The An-Ex ’tude had withdrawn, replaced by a softness to his eyes and concern in his voice that seemed genuine.

  “Someone posted some pretty heinous stuff about her online.”

  A wave of relief washed over his face. “But she’s okay?”

  “You get information when I get information. What do you know about a Web site called Campus Juice?”

  “It’s a gossip site.”

  “So you know about it.”

  “Sure. People post evil shit about each other on there. Pretty funny sometimes.”

  “You mean college-student-type people. You’re not a college student.”

  “Boy, you have been talking to Megan, haven’t you? She had to go talk about that shit to you? Fine, I don’t go to college. I didn’t take the three-thousand-dollar prep course for my SATs like Megan and her friends and her snotty-ass roommate. I know a hell of a lot more about life than they do. I can tell you that.”

  Ellie held up her palms. “All I’m asking you about is a Web site, Keith. You’re the one who got all defensive about this college thing.”

  He pressed his lips together and looked down at the sidewalk. “Let’s just say it was an issue between me and her. So, whatever. This Web site. Yeah, I know about it, even though I don’t go to college.”

  “Have you posted on it before?”

  “Yeah. About six months ago.”

  Ellie was wondering if this was going to be easier than she thought. “You have?”

  “Sure. That’s my target demographic. I did a guerrilla gig last year in Tribeca at a test screening of some artsy-fart indie film about homeless kids on the needle. I leaked the buzz on message boards aimed at college students. Pretty sure I covered NYU, Fordham, and Columbia on Campus Juice.”

  “Have you posted on the site since then?”

  He paused. “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep. Why are you asking me this shit?”

  “Have you been on the Web site at all since then?”

  “Nope. The event was a bust anyway. I got about thirty people there to see me take over the theater, but only about twenty people showed up for the movie. And no press. Sort of defeats the purpose of going guerrilla. Again, why are you asking me this shit?”

  “Where were you this morning between eight and nine o’clock?” She had an approximate time of death from the ME.

  “At home.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  “My mom was home.”

  “You live with your mom?”

  “Surprised Megan didn’t tell you that, too. She didn’t believe me that I could afford to pay rent. So instead she gets that Heather bitch to move in. Said it would be nice to have a girlfriend around. And what did it get her? Nothing. Heather’s not her friend. She goes out with some mystery boyfriend she didn’t even tell Megan about. She even tried to come on to me one night, telling me all about how she started having sex real young and all this other crazy shit. What kind of friend is that?”

  “Keith, enough about the roommate and what could’ve been if you lived with Megan. If I take your laptop in, are my analysts going to back up what you say about not going to that Web site in the last six months?”

  “You’re not taking anything anywhere. That laptop’s my fucking livelihood. That’s my art. Let me talk to Megan and sort this shit out. She knows I wouldn’t say a bad word about her to anyone.”

  He pulled out his phone and hit the button for his contact list. Megan had deleted all evidence of their relationship from her electronic world, but apparently Keith had not. Ellie grabbed the phone from Guzman’s hand and hit the end button. He jerked his hand away.

  “First you talk shit about taking my computer. Now you’re messing with my phone. You better step back.”

  “Or what, Keith?”

  He stared at her.

  “Or what? You gonna stab me? Cut me up?”

  “Bitch, you’re crazy,” he muttered. “Just call Megan, a’ight?”

  “Megan’s dead.”

  She watched as a look of confusion on his face turned to realization. He began shaking his head. “No, no. No. No.” He spoke that same word over and over again until he bent forward and began to cry.

  The front door of the bar swung open, nearly smacking Guzman. He stepped
out of the way and tried to regain his composure. Ellie recognized the woman who walked out of Gaslight as one of the attractive group of three from inside. Just behind her came Jess, hands in pockets, guilty smile on his face.

  Jess was not the only one leaving with more than he’d hoped for. She headed back into the bar for Guzman’s laptop.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  6:30 P.M.

  Katie Battle made certain to keep her knees together beneath the short hemline of her dress as she shifted her weight from the cab. A uniformed bellman opened one side of a set of double red doors for her.

  “Welcome to the Royalton, ma’am.”

  She bypassed the hotel lobby’s suede sofas, leather-covered walls, and steel tables and headed directly for the wood-paneled Bar 44.

  It was six thirty, a bit early for New York City happy-hour standards, but the space had already started to fill. She’d learned that this time of day was popular for married men who could fit in an after-work diversion and still make it home in time to claim a late night at the office.

  Taking the last remaining seat at the bar, she ordered a Manhattan from a light-haired bartender, who gave her a knowing look. “You want some bar mix to snack on, or will this be a quick visit?”

  The comment was obviously a dig. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was all in her imagination.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  The bartender nodded politely and made his way to the other end of the counter, where a barrel-chested man tapped a credit card on the sleek brass bar top.

  She had taken two ladylike sips of her cherry red cocktail when the man approached.

  “Are you Miranda?”

  She gave him her warmest and most welcoming smile. “Very nice to meet you.”

  “Stuart,” he said. “Uh, Stuart—”

  “That’s okay,” she said, with a reassuring nod. “You can be anyone you want tonight.”