LlamaGirl: Shouldn’t I have a lawyer for that?
PCTracy: Absolutely, and I will make sure you do.
Because he is Thompson. Or works for him. The more we talk, the more certain I am that I don’t need to find a lawyer. I already have. I just need to be sure I can trust him.
LlamaGirl: Fair enough. What are my restrictions, though? I just got caught buying lunch. Can I go back to my hotel and get my things?
PCTracy: If you don’t need your belongings, skip it.
LlamaGirl: I need them.
PCTracy: Okay. You’ll have to find a new place to stay, though.
Do you trust me enough to arrange that for you?
LlamaGirl: No. Sorry.
PCTracy: Don’t apologize. The problem, though, is that I presume you’re paying cash and not showing ID. Even at the seediest hotels, you’re calling attention to yourself. I can book you a room and leave the key where you can find it.
LlamaGirl: Not yet.
PCTracy: The alternative would be finding a place to spend the night out-of-doors. A park or such. That would be far from comfortable.
LlamaGirl: That’s fine.
PCTracy: Let’s talk specifics, then.
After I fetch my belongings, I stop at a library. I’m not even sure which one. It’s a big branch, quiet on a Tuesday afternoon. I find a study carrel and log on to the Internet. PCTracy has asked me to give him twenty-four hours, and I’m giving myself the same. Twenty-four hours to make headway, or I am turning myself in.
Making headway means diving into the Internet cesspool again. Even thinking about it makes me shy away like a spooked horse. No, that analogy puts a pretty gloss on the truth. I’m not merely skittish about seeing my life dragged through that muck. I am viscerally sick, physically and mentally. I want to be stronger than this, to tell myself that people have endured far greater trauma. Yet my body doesn’t care for distinctions. This feels like trauma, slashing open life-threatening wounds that had finally begun to heal.
I can tell myself that words can’t hurt me. I can tell myself I will survive this. Whatever happens, I will rebuild my life again. None of that matters, though, when I feel as if I’m watching it all burn to cinders around me, and every time I try to throw water on the flames, I dowse them in gasoline instead.
So here I go, wading in, water hose in hand. Again, I find myself grudgingly relying on the entertainment tabloids. I focus on the Morales-Gordon clan and quickly discover that I’m not the only one being burned at the stake in a public spectacle.
They’ve zeroed in on Jamison. In and out of rehab since he was seventeen. Two suicide attempts. A “beautiful wreck of a boy” with “deep-rooted psychological issues” that can stem from the trauma of his beloved nanny turning into a Lolita hell-bent on destroying his family.
Then there’s Tiana. A young woman who spurned the family business and got her master’s in political science and became an activist. In the words of one right-wing publication, she’s a professional shit-disturber, a whiny millennial malcontent. Ultraconservative blogs make a big deal of her sexual orientation, too, snarking that for someone like Tiana, being gay is a career requirement. Others speculate that her experience with me and her father “turned her gay.”
Next up is Colt. After the scandal, a couple of his past lovers talked to the media. There are whispers of him being seen at sex parties. Also a paternity claim from a nineteen-year-old ingenue. Nineteen, Colt? Jesus. You learned nothing, did you?
Then there’s Isabella. No one has a bad thing to say about her…which is exactly the ammunition they use against her. Poor, long-suffering Isabella. Gave up her career for her man. Stuck by him when he screwed around with the nanny. Pathetic, really. Isabella may be the Madonna in our drama, the faithful Penelope to my seductress Circe, but that doesn’t win her anything except contempt.
I dig for rumors of Isabella’s potential lover. Of course, any search on her name fills the page with news of her death. Even as I try to filter out keywords, I find myself reading the most up-to-date stories on her murder.
Colt arrived in New York yesterday. Tiana was rumored to be picking up her brother yesterday from rehab, but she was spotted having dinner last night with her father, and there was no sign of Jamison. Lots of speculation there, everything from “he had a relapse, and he’s in emergency detox” to “he attempted suicide, and he’s in hospital.”
Guilt and grief wash over me. Yet there’s no way Tiana would be seen having dinner out with her dad if her brother was in the hospital. If she’s not with him, there’s a reason. I just don’t know what it is.
I start to dig deeper and then stop. Where is this getting me? I can tell myself I’m hoping to find a clue that will help my case, but really, I’m just checking up on Tiana and Jamison, worrying about them.
What might help me is finding Isabella’s mystery lover. I know he was in New York the night she died, which makes him a suspect, but I can find nothing online suggesting Isabella had a lover. Part of the issue is keywords. No matter how I phrase it, I end up with references to my fourteen-year-old scandal and Colt’s alleged subsequent affairs.
I call the mystery lover’s phone number again. Voice mail picks up immediately. I could text him, but I’m not sure what I’d say. I’m not even sure what I’d have said if he answered my call.
Frustration buzzes through me. My only lead is this dead end. Getting more will have to wait until I’m ready to share Isabella’s secret with PCTracy.
When I consider reneging on my decision to not tell him, I realize, to my shame, that I’m looking for an excuse to talk to him. I’m unsettled, and he settles me, and that’s a weird and uncomfortable thing to say.
I’m staring at my phone when he messages, as if he sensed me debating.
PCTracy: Just checking in. Everything okay?
LlamaGirl: All good. Found a spot to hang out and do some research.
PCTracy: Anything?
LlamaGirl: Nope. Just busywork. I am not a PI.
PCTracy: Well, I am, and it’s still slow going. I might have something, but I need to check a few things first.
LlamaGirl: Tease.
As soon as I hit Send on that, I deliver a mental head smack. He responds with a simple “LOL. Sorry.” and then I feel silly for worrying that it sounded flirtatious.
PCTracy: Soon, I promise. But you’re okay? Need anything?
LlamaGirl: Work. I’m running in circles. Is there something I can do? Something I can research for you? I feel useless.
PCTracy: I understand. Right now, there’s nothing, but if I have anything, I will let you know.
LlamaGirl: Thank you. In the meantime, I have to contact my mom and a friend. Is it safe to do that on a prepaid?
PCTracy: No, sorry. If they monitor your mom’s calls, an NYC prepaid cell number would be a giveaway. They could get your location from the GPS.
LlamaGirl: Right. Duh. Stick to pay phones, then?
PCTracy: You found one? Are you sure you’re not a detective?
LlamaGirl: I saw one downstairs by the restrooms. Otherwise, yeah, they are in short supply.
PCTracy: Use that for now. I have an idea for options that might be more convenient. I’ll investigate and let you know.
I work in the library for another hour. Then I head down to the pay phone. I call Nylah first. As I hoped, the police haven’t reached out to her yet. I give her a quick update. Basic
ally, I’m fine. I didn’t do it, but I’m afraid to turn myself in after my scandal experience, so I’m giving the police time to realize they’ve made a horrible mistake. All true, and also all things she can tell the police if they contact her. Nylah wants more, of course. What was I doing in New York? What happened? How can she help?
I answer the first two honestly. For the third, I pretend I’m fine and everything’s under control. I stop myself before reassuring her that I have professional help. I need to protect everyone. Protect Nylah and my mom from keeping secrets. Protect PCTracy from getting in trouble for aiding a fugitive.
I insist that Nylah tells the police everything if they do get in touch.
“Can I tell them that they’re idiots, too?” she says. “That they should have been there for you ten years ago when you were stabbed in an alley? That if they think you’d kill Isabella Morales, they need a brain transplant?”
“That seems unwise.”
She snorts. “Too bad. I’ll tell them anyway.” Her voice lowers. “You are okay, right, Luce?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Stop saying that. Of course you didn’t. But you’re on the run and…you aren’t exactly fugitive material.”
“I’ve spent fourteen years running from something I didn’t do. That’s gotta count for something.”
She goes quiet. Before I can speak, she says, “I hate this, Luce. You don’t deserve it. No one would, but you least of all.”
I assure her I’m fine, and we talk for a few more minutes before I sign off.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I call Mom. Our conversation is strained. She wants me to turn myself in with the help of “that Mr. Thompson.” I long to tell her that I suspect I’m already working with him, but I can’t say anything she’d need to keep from the police.
“I know there was a misunderstanding, Lucy,” she says. “He made a mistake. I really think you should give him a second chance. Have you heard from him?”
I hesitate. “Not since last night. I’m sure I will end up hiring him. Right now, I’m working a few things through and giving the police time to figure out they made a mistake.”
We talk more. I stick to the script I used with Nylah. No mention of PCTracy. No mention of what I’m doing or where I’ve been or what my plans are. Nothing Mom would hesitate to tell the police. I finish the call, and then I head out.
* * *
—
I’ll be spending the night in Central Park. That’s not as easy as it once was. The park is closed from one a.m. to six, when it’s patrolled by park police, who’ll roust and fine trespassers. If I’m caught, well, then I guess I’ll turn myself in.
The Ramble is the obvious place to sleep. It’s a forest within the park, thickly wooded, with plenty of hidey-holes. It also has a reputation for being the most dangerous spot after dark, and while it’s much safer than it was twenty years ago, I’m not taking that chance.
While power walking, I survey possibilities and choose a place near Belvedere Castle, where I can sleep along the back of a building, tucked into the shadows, dressed in dark clothing.
It’s still not late enough to take up position, so I find a hidden place and work. I’m all set with a newly purchased notebook and pen. No more aimlessly wandering the Internet. It’s time to get organized.
First, I build a timeline.
Sunday, 3 p.m.–4:15 p.m.: visit Isabella
5:02 p.m.: text Isabella to agree to meet for lunch Monday
Head back to hotel after that, and stay in my room until morning.
Note: Can they confirm my comings and goings with keycard access? My door didn’t open after turndown service. Check this with PCTracy.
Monday, 5:53 a.m.: first text from Isabella
6:15 a.m.: leave hotel and walk to Isabella’s
6:45 a.m.: arrive at hotel
7:05 a.m.: staff enters hotel room
7:20 a.m.: talking to security guard before police arrive
I’m pleased at myself for thinking of the keycard question. Yet deep down, I know that, while this would be the exonerating evidence in a TV legal drama, it won’t be enough to prove innocence.
On the park Wi-Fi, I search for time of death and end up on a website that tells me, firmly but gently, just how inexact a science “time of death” is. It’ll be a time frame of hours, not minutes. Helpful if you’re trying to decide whether a victim died on a Monday or a Tuesday. Not so helpful if the critical question is whether she died at 5 a.m., 6 or 7.
Next, I map out Isabella’s timeline. No one has reported her receiving visitors to her room. Would the hotel know? I suspect not. While cameras place me in the lobby, none report me in the elevators or the stairwell or on the penthouse floor, which I suspect means the old building doesn’t have cameras beyond that lobby.
So the killer arrives. He or she goes straight up to the penthouse, and Isabella lets them inside. They fight, and she dies. That seems the most likely explanation, but I can’t rule out premeditated murder.
Who would want Isabella dead? I list my suspects, their motivations and alibis and start with the easiest: Isabella’s children.
Jamison. In rehab out of state. There’s a check-up text from his mom Sunday evening and then a phone call. No sign of trouble between them. No sign that he knew I was even in New York.
Tiana. In New York. Knew I had visited Isabella. Knew I would return for lunch. Motivation for murder? None.
I pause there. This is the problem. Knowing the suspects blinkers me. PCTracy wouldn’t write “none” after Tiana’s motive. She’s Isabella’s daughter. Surely she’d stand to gain something on her mother’s death. So would Jamison. PCTracy would dig deeper into their finances and their relationship with Isabella.
He can do that; I won’t.
Colt. Possibly not in California at the time of the murder but pretended he was. Knew I was here meeting Isabella. Did he know about my lunch plans with Isabella? Unknown. Motive? Yes.
A lawyer would laugh at that last part. Can you elaborate? I only know that I can come up with a half-dozen reasons why Colt might kill Isabella, and I’m sure there are more. They were married; he was chronically unfaithful and unhealthily dependent, and she was about to divorce him.
Mystery lover. Definitely in New York at time of murder. No one knows this (presumably) except me. Knew about my meeting with Isabella. Motive? Yes.
Again, I don’t have a clear motive; I only know that, as a secret lover, he would have at least one.
Others: business associates. Personal assistant—Bess—knew I was in NYC, wasn’t happy about it and told Tiana. Manager—Karla—knew and was cautiously ready to move forward with the “go public” plan.
If Karla knew, other staff likely did, too. Isabella would open her hotel door to any of them. I don’t know her current staff and business associates, though, and the more I think about it, the more I realize I know so little of Isabella’s life these days. There could be a dozen other people who belong on this list.
I’m tired, and panic is creeping in. Time to get to my sleeping spot and settle in for the night.
* * *
—
I sleep better than I expected. I feel oddly safer here than I did in my hotel room. The building hides me, and after an hour of lying awake but hearing no one on the nearby paths, I drift off.
When I wake to a touch on my cheek, I don’t jump up. I think only of the man who has shared my bed for hundreds of nights in the past two years. My eyelids flutter, and I stretch and smile up at a dark-haired figure.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
My smile freezes. It’s a flat American accent in a voice deeper than Marco’s musical contralto. I blink, and a man in his late thirties appears. A very average face with short hair and twinkling hazel eyes.
I scramb
le up, realizing where I am. I see his dark jacket and that short hair. Park police.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. I’d come up with an excuse last night, but now my sleep-sodden brain can’t locate it. “I…I was with a friend and…we’d had a few drinks…and I just sat down for a minute…”
The flimsy excuse rolls out, and the guy nods sympathetically, as if it’s perfectly plausible.
“Is there a fine?” I say. “I’ll pay it if there is.”
He hems and haws, and I babble nonsense about how nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and I’m so embarrassed.
Even as he’s nodding, something pings deep inside me. The faintest warning chime.
I look up at him. Really look at him. He is terrifyingly bland. Average age. Average appearance. Clean-shaven. Well-dressed. Looks like a cop.
A memory flashes. A man in an alley, dressed in dark clothing, who’d seemed to be wearing a hat, which turned out to be a hoodie, and afterward, I’d wondered how I’d mistaken a guy in a hoodie for a cop.
Because he seemed like one. I might only have caught the briefest glimpse of a face, only enough to recall that it was a white guy. Something deeper, though, mistook him for a police officer because he had that look.
Clean-shaven. Well-groomed. Solid build.
Not a guy you’d mistake for an addict shooting up in an alley. Not a guy you’d mistake for a homeless person.
A guy you might mistake for a cop.
I look down at this man’s outfit—a dark jacket, dark jeans and sneakers. Then up at his face, and that alarm screeches.
I know you.
Oh, shit. I know you.
I scramble up, but he’s on me in a second, grabbing my arm and expertly pinning it behind my back. Then he leans in, and his voice loses that midwestern accent and rises an octave to a voice my gut recognizes with a breath-stealing twist.
Every Step She Takes Page 19
