She extricated herself from her bed and threw on Alfie’s sweats, his socks, his thick bathrobe. She couldn’t stop wrapping herself in him, and she wasn’t going to analyze it or even think about it. Obviously she’d stop all deranged behaviors the minute he came home.
CHAPTER
11
IT WAS TOO late/early to contact anybody else, so she put the coffeepot on and opened her laptop.
A quick search turned up a small news article in a local Long Island paper confirming that, yes, Harry Burroughs of Mineola had been found dead a week before. The paper sidestepped the details of the death itself, instead devoting a short but lurid column to Harry’s (and Laney’s) last big case.
She poured the coffee and tried unsuccessfully to focus on something other than that case. Nothing good came of remembering it.
Once settled back at the table, she checked Alfie’s missing-child Facebook page. The shares numbered 463 now, the comments being mostly of the I hope he comes home soon variety.
A sip of hot beverage, a second of vacillation, and she signed in as Kendra Wilkes, then sent a message to all six of her new high school Facebook friends. She’d sign into Snapchat in the morning and try there as well.
At just past four AM, she figured she’d be in for many hours of nothing when Bondage Balls pinged her back.
Hey, he said. Bondage Balls’ profile picture was an orange dildo.
Hey, Kendra replied.
Wassup
First things first.
So, she typed. Did you know this Alph guy?
Alph?
Laney took another sip of coffee. Alfie. That guy whose missing. Yous all shared his page?
Hahah, yous. What r u, a jersey girl?
Yup. So, you know him?
Hes cringy. Hes friends with my cousin.
Oh yeah? Whose your cousin?
Jordan. You know Jordan? Looks like yur friends with him.
Not really. I’m new around here.
Cool. So, new girl, what r u doing up in the middle of the night?
Can’t sleep.
Come by and I’ll help you. If you know what I mean.
I keep thinking about this Alfie guy. He’s from around here, right? In Sylvan?
Yeah, he goes to my school.
So what do you think happened? You think he got kidnapped?
Don’t know. Maybe. Jordan says he was talking to some old guy after school on Tuesday.
Laney swallowed hard, every brain cell at attention. She had to go gently now, not sound like a cop. She wrote, Creepy! So you think some old guy kidnapped him? And here I was thinking we just moved to some boring ass place.
Well you got that right tho its batshit boring here. Jordan says he thinks Alfie went with the old guy cause the old guy is like some kind of drug dealer.
Laney’s stomach clenched, and a sour swell of coffee rose up her gullet.
Coolz! There’s drug dealers in this town? Doesn’t sound so boring. You know the old guy?
Jordan knows him. He said they been hanging out with him for weeks and hes been all over Alfie. So maybe hes really into him.
The old guy is into Alfie? Is Alfie gay?
Who knows. I always thought he was weird anyway. I didnt think he wuz gay, but weird. Like maybe he likes weird shit.
Says Bondage Balls
Oh yeah, hahah. Hey, u wanna come over? I’m just off Dyad street. Where r u?
Callisto street.
Hey, thats real close. Ill come by.
No, god no. My dad will kill me either way. Tell me more about the deep dark secrets of Sylvan. So far I got a creepy old man drug dealer kidnapper, insomniac bondage aficionados, and runaway weirdos. I might just like living here.
Haha, insomniac bondage aficionados! Good one. So when can I see you?
Ugh, stop it. So pushy!
Sorry, sorry. But you look hot in that picture.
So can Jordan get us some drugs from the creepy old man drug czar?
What r u, some kind of addict?
I’m bored!
Okay, okay, I’ll ask him. What’s yr number? I’ll text u tomorrow when I have some.
Laney texted her number and sat back. Then, in a fit of desperation, Wait, is your cousin Jordan Perino? He lives around the corner from me! The only thing around the corner from Laney’s house was a patch of birches on one side and the path leading to the lake on the other.
What? No, Jordan Rogers. Hes on Selkie rd. By the shoprite?
Oh, okay. Shit gotta go.
She closed the message window and logged out, then immediately Googled the Rogers family on Selkie Road. Their house was much like hers, an economically sized colonial with a ramshackle porch and a roof that would need replacing soon.
Unable to sit still, or, worse, to stay in the silent house alone, she slipped her feet into boots, grabbed her parka and hat, and drove the three miles to the police station.
Ed was at the front desk again, wiling away the wee hours toward his shift’s end.
“Laney,” he said, his face cautious, neutral. “Do you have news? Has Alfie been in touch?”
She shook her head. “No, but I found out something.”
He nodded. “Oh yeah? Do you know where he is?”
“No, Ed, I don’t. But I found out there’s an older man that’s been hanging out outside the school and he might be dealing drugs to the students.”
Ed’s eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead. “Do you have a name for this person?”
“No. But I know that a Jordan Rogers, a student, I think a freshman, knows him.” She cleared her throat. “I think Alfie also knows him.”
Ed sat forward and laced his fingers together. “Really?” He jutted his lower lip, looked at his hands, then back at her. “I know Matt Rogers, Jordan’s dad. I’ve known Jordan since he was in grade school. Who told you this thing about the drug dealing?”
Laney always found the best way to be dishonest was to be mostly honest. “Looks like Alfie might have been friends with Jordan. You know, I just wanted to know if you all talked to him. To Jordan. About the drug dealer.” Never mind about Jordan dealing those drugs himself.
Ed typed something on his keyboard. “We are absolutely going to look into that. Soon. It’s another four hours before school starts. Right? Laney, we’re on this. Go home and I’ll call you. Okay?”
It wasn’t okay, not by a long shot. Three years ago, she would have been running checks on Jordan, his parents, all the drug arrests and petty thefts reported in the area, all the break-ins. She would have been working this case, not sitting on her hands. Not waiting four hours for school to start. Using all her strength to hide her exasperation (and desperation), she went back out into the raw night.
At home, the lights on, the television a murmur in the living room and bedroom, she waited until six AM before going outside and texting her and Harry’s old sergeant.
Huddled inside her parka on her front steps, watching the weak sun struggle upward through the iron-hued clouds, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pray, but couldn’t remember how.
Holly materialized out of the gloom, her sniffly dog mincing delicately ahead through icy patches, its tail up and alert, its little gray face curious.
“No news?” Holly asked. One of the many things Laney liked about Holly was her directness. She might be frivolous sometimes, but she wasn’t dull, and being with her never felt like a waste of time, no matter what they were doing.
“Do you know Jordan Rogers?”
Holly smiled. She really did know everyone in town. “Sure, he’s my friend Diane’s oldest. A bit of a problem child, if you ask me.” Then, concerned, “Why? What did you hear?”
“I think someone’s been dealing to the kids. And Jordan and Alfie are mixed up in it, but I can’t quite put my finger on how.” She cocked her head at Holly. “Do you think your friend will let me talk to her son?”
“I’ll ask. I would think so, though.” She glanced at her phone. “It’s to
o early. Give me a couple of hours.” Then back at Laney. “You look like … well, you don’t look that great. Not that you don’t have reason to—I didn’t mean that.”
Laney shook her head. “No, that’s fine. I know what you’re saying.” She took off her hat (fake fur with floppy ears—Alfie’s hat) and rubbed her fingertips along her scalp. She told Holly about Harry and then about her chat with Bondage Balls and then about what she thought she’d seen happen in the hallway at school. And about how the house, so quiet and dark and empty, was impossible.
“Never in my life,” Laney said, “did I think things would be this horrible.” She rubbed her eyes and her cheeks, raking her fingernails over her skin. “If Alfie’s gone, that’s the end of me.”
Holly sat down next to her and drew her close. Even this early she smelled of strawberry body spray and freshly washed clothes. “Laney,” she said, quietly, her cheek pressed against Laney’s shoulder, “you are one strong motherfucker. You know that?”
CHAPTER
12
THAT AFTERNOON, LANEY rang the doorbell of 15 Selkie Road. She’d deliberated the tone to take—grief-stricken mother (would appeal to Jordan’s mom, not so much to the boy), detective (she would get in trouble, but it would be worth it if she got something useful out of him), forlorn lost soul (as an undercover, acting helpless often induced even the most cagey to cooperate).
When Diane Rogers opened the door, her face guarded, an undercurrent of irritation and displeasure in the set of her mouth, Laney settled on detective. If Jordan really was a problem child as Holly had said, then no amount of empathy could overrule his mother’s instinct to protect him, whereas a subtle threat in the form of law enforcement might work in Laney’s favor.
As they settled on the beige couch in the living room, Diane Rogers crossed her arms and said, “I’m sorry about your son.”
“Thank you.” Laney opened her wallet and showed her shield. “I’m not here in an official capacity. But in the interest of full disclosure …” She let the shield speak for her. At least this way nobody could accuse her of impersonating something she wasn’t.
Diane shifted, placing both her feet squarely on the floor. Her eyes flicked upstairs, then back at Laney. She said, “Holly said you had questions?”
“I was wondering if I could speak with Jordan?”
“What about?”
Laney moved her legs so that her position mirrored Diane’s. “I believe your son knew my son. I believe he might have some information about what happened.”
“He said the school already spoke with him and he told them everything.”
Laney shook her head slightly. “I doubt it. I don’t think he would have told them about the fact that he’s been associating with a drug dealer. Or that he saw Alfie talking to that individual on the afternoon he disappeared.”
In the ensuing silence, Laney heard a creak on the stairs, and a quick glance in that direction revealed a foot just at the top of the landing, the rest of the body hidden. Diane heard it too but didn’t move, kept her eyes glued to Laney’s, her face closing.
“Elaine, right?”
“Laney, please.”
“Erm. Okay. I’m not sure I understand. Are you with the police?”
“No. Well, I am a detective. But as I said, I’m not here in any official capacity.”
“Then I’m sorry. I need to ask you to leave now.” Diane stood, gesturing toward the front door.
Laney looked up at that stealthy foot in its dingy white sock. “Jordan,” she called out, “Alfie is in trouble. I promise nothing will happen to you if you help me. Who was that man you saw him with?”
“No, no.” Diane, still too nice to lay hands on Laney, managed to shepherd her toward the front door. “You can’t talk to my son. You need to leave.”
“Or what?” Laney said. “You’ll call the police?”
The other woman blanched and flattened her lips, her eyes dancing in her face. She pointed at the door, her entire body tense and forward leaning, blocking any movement on Laney’s part other than out.
Laney drove home with her windows wide open, wanting the stinging, numbing cold to go through her.
When she checked her phone a short time later, she had three texts from Holly, a missed call and voice mail from Ed Boswell, and a response from her old sergeant to the message she’d sent in the morning. She tapped that one first. It said, Can you meet me tonight?
She frowned. Why? Where? she typed.
Noonan’s. Near me.
So up in the Bronx. Not that far.
She texted, Do you know about Harry?”
The answer, right away: Meet me. 6:30.
She stared at her phone. She started typing a response, then deleted it. Started a second one, deleted it as well.
Finally, aware of both the inadequacy of her answer and the risk of writing what she really wanted to, she typed, Okay. She didn’t think she could take one more crisis in her life, but she couldn’t ignore whatever this conversation was going to be either. Mike would not have asked this of her if he felt they could have a chat over the phone.
More worrisome, would he have asked her if she hadn’t texted him this morning? Unease squeezed her rib cage, and she closed her eyes. One clusterfuck at a time, as Harry used to say.
The voice mail from Boswell was next. She wouldn’t have needed to be a former detective to predict the tone or content of that voice mail, all of which had to do with her visit to the Rogerses and nothing to do with her missing son.
CHAPTER
13
TRYING TO PARK anywhere in the city, even in the Bronx, at dinnertime is an exercise in futility. Laney paid for a garage and walked the five blocks to Noonan’s, stepping through its darkly polished doors at six forty-five.
Being a cop was hard on the body—the enforced immobility for desk jobs, the long hours, the bad food. If you didn’t watch it, you could end up with a heart attack by fifty. Mike Stegner, six foot three and a fan of all food, good and bad, had fought this with all his might. He joined a gym near the precinct, worked out at home. His plan, as he never failed to tell Laney and Harry, was to retire after twenty years and live a fuck-long life doing fuck all. The last time she saw him, he’d been fit, energetically muscled, and tan, his brown hair combed back, sideburns regulation short but defiantly visible, tattoos on both arms ending above the wrists, also per regulations.
He was waiting for her at a table, his back against the wall. His skin, even in the pub’s flattering dim lighting, was raw, unhealthy. His hair was too long above the ears and stuck out as if he’d not combed it for days. Most disturbingly, he had a doughy, bloated look about him, and his forearms, previously as firm and thick as a boxer’s, were now flaccid with loose skin.
Out of habit, Laney cataloged all this, plus the missing wedding ring. She hugged him, pecked his stubbly cheek, and sat across from him.
Seeing him filled her with a lonesomeness she thought she’d left behind years ago. She’d resigned with a clear head and a sure heart. Nothing was more important than giving Alfie a proper life. A steady life with a parent who would be there. But she missed her friends, missed the person she used to be when work was good. Sure, there was plenty she didn’t miss, but that’s not what tugged at her now as she settled across from her old friend.
“You look awful,” Mike said to her. “What happened?”
And just like that, the distance the years had put between them vanished, and her face crumpled. She picked up a paper napkin and blew her nose. Said, “Alfie’s missing. He disappeared two days ago.”
He paled. “Jesus, Laney, why didn’t you call me?”
“Well, what can you do about it? The police by me are handling it.” She wiped her face with another napkin. “I hope.”
Mike shook his head. “How old is he now?”
“Almost fourteen.” She swallowed, shook her head to indicate she wouldn’t talk about her son right at that moment. Mike had asked her here for a re
ason, and that reason had to do with Harry, which ultimately had to do with all of them. She couldn’t afford to ignore that, especially now that Alfie needed her. “What’s going on? What happened with Harry?” she asked.
He looked around, his shoulders hunched, as if he didn’t want to be overheard. He started saying something just as the barmaid came over, then changed his mind. They shooed her away.
“What the hell, Mike? What’s with the secrecy?” she asked.
The waitress circled back and they gave in, ordered two drafts.
When he was sure they couldn’t be overheard, he said, “Remember Owen Hopper?”
Laney dropped the coaster she’d been bending this way and that, a coldness expanding inside her. She nodded.
“He’s out.”
“What?” She’d stopped following the case in the news, but she was sure he had at least four years to go. Her neck and shoulders stiffened, sending a lancing pain zigzagging up her spine. “That’s … are you sure?”
Mike nodded. “Out. Back in November.”
Hopper. There was only one reason Hopper would be out—the evidence that put him behind bars was suspect, enough to overturn the conviction—and her feelings about both the reason for his release and the fact of it were so muddy she felt a headache starting. She’d put the case behind her, walked away from it. Thinking of it now gave her a dark, greasy feeling.
Mike leaned forward just as the barmaid came back with their beers, and they waited for her to set them down, never taking their eyes from each other. When she left, Mike said, “I think Harry? I think that was …”
Laney turned her head to hear him better over the din. “Was what? Harry was what?”
“I think Owen Hopper did Harry.”
She was about to scoff, was about to ask him where he’d gotten that crazy idea, but the words dried in her mouth. Because what Mike just said made absolute sense.
Owen Hopper, a pharmacist with a good job, a wild streak, and an even wilder wife, had gotten himself in trouble, then got himself into more trouble, then became a confidential informant for Harry, which, as it turned out, was his worst trouble of all.
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