If You Were Here: A Novel of Suspense

by Alafair Burke

  “No. We don’t check in day-to-day. She mostly sends me Christmas cards. Mother’s Day. Just to let me know she’s doing all right.”

  “Maybe I can give her a call?”

  Loretta shook her head, as if realizing that a mother should have her daughter’s telephone number. “I’ve never been much for the phone.” She waved a hand for emphasis.

  “I see. The Pamela Morris I’m looking for had a couple of police interactions back in the nineties. For—” She struggled for a euphemism. “For being a lady of the evening.” She cringed at the sound of it.

  Loretta’s gaze moved to the fake brick fireplace. “That was a long time ago. Pamela’s doing better now. Turned her entire life around. This area was a bad influence on her. When she left, everything changed. Has a man. Has her church. No more police. No more—lady of the evening.” She returned her gaze to McKenna with a twinkle. She’d known it was a corny phrase.

  “So, I’m sorry . . . when did you last see her?”

  “It’s been a while.”

  The woman did not want a stranger to know she never saw her daughter and didn’t have her phone number. “I’m so sorry to press, ma’am, but my friend is missing. It’s important.”

  “I haven’t seen her in person since—I guess it would be fall of 2003. Doesn’t seem that long ago, really.”

  “That’s—um, that’s quite a long time not to see your daughter.”

  Loretta’s breezy tone became stern, and her face darkened. “Maybe in some families. Not this one. Pam started running away when she was fourteen years old. Dropped out her senior year. Moved out right after. Seemed the only time I ever saw her was when she needed money. Or bail the one time. I guess I suspected the kind of life she was living, but at least when she got arrested, she came clean with me. I let her move back in while she tried to get her act together—went to counseling for girls trying to get out of that . . . lifestyle. It would last a few weeks at a time, then she’d be gone again and we’d start the cycle all over.”

  “That must have been hard for a mother to see.” McKenna didn’t know what else to say.

  “You have no idea. I just kept thinking every time the phone rang, it would be the police telling me my baby girl was dead. At one point I let her stay with me even when she was in the life. It was a terrible compromise to make, but at least I knew every night that she was alive and in one piece. And because she didn’t need as much money, she promised me she’d only see her regulars, not the kind of guys who would beat her up. She told me a couple of the guys were married with sick wives and told themselves that being with her wasn’t the same as cheating, since it wasn’t emotional. One guy was a funny-looking dude—and a little slow—but she said he’d bring her flowers and love notes and stuff. One guy paid her just to talk to him and watch movies. That kind of thing.”

  “How did you go from that . . . arrangement to her leaving?”

  “She was getting a little too comfortable telling me about the work. I lost it one night and told her it was still— Well, that’s not what I said. I told her she was still a whore. It would’ve been better for me to just slap her across the face. She walked out, and that was the end of the—arrangement, as you called it. Frankly, the cards she sends a couple of times a year, that’s about as much as I heard from her when she was living two miles away.”

  “Did you ever hear her mention a woman named Susan Hauptmann?” McKenna pulled up a picture of Susan on her iPad, the same one that her father had used for the reward posters.

  Loretta shook her head. “Nope. Pam never had many female friends. Or male ones, for that matter—at least I wouldn’t call them friends.”

  “How about the People for the Preservation of the Planet?”

  Loretta chuckled, then covered her mouth. “Sorry, but that’s quite a tongue twister, isn’t it? Nope, never heard of that one, either.”

  “Would you say Pamela was an environmentalist? Or passionate about animal rights?”

  “She had a hamster in the fourth grade and traded it to the boy next door for a Popsicle. You sure you’ve got the right Pamela Morris? You might want to try the other ones.”

  But McKenna left Jersey City with a feeling in her gut that she had the right Pamela Morris. Happy talk in holiday cards might keep a mother at bay, but the fact remained that Loretta hadn’t seen her daughter since 2003, the same year McKenna last saw Susan Hauptmann. Something had happened. Something to explain both of them leaving. Something to explain their shared connection to the P3s. Something that had changed life for both of them forever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Carter lit yet another match. Dammit. That was the problem with these enormous hotels. The windows didn’t open. Too many concerns about liability.

  No open windows meant no fresh air. Which meant that Carter’s room at the Marriott smelled like vomit.

  Three times on his knees in front of the toilet bowl. The last time had been dry heaves, but still.

  He had even given himself the talk, the one from two years ago, when he’d made the decision to go private. He saw what was happening. Other people were doing the same work for ten times the money and without all the bullshit.

  Since then, the line had gotten blurred. What had been a government job became private. Some of the things he couldn’t do then he was allowed to do now, but other things he was authorized to do then were now off the table. The geography changed, but the skills were the same. Usually the same cast of characters, too. Different theaters but somehow still all connected. Working for the same people. Playing the same angles.

  The explosion out in Brentwood was a perfect example. He’d killed people before. In Kandahar, he’d started thinking of it like a video game. They had all signed on to the game. Some people won, and some people . . . didn’t.

  But in Brentwood, he’d screwed up. The woman who was part of the game had won. She’d made it out of the house before the explosion, run 1.6 miles in ten minutes, and now she was in the wind.

  In response, the client had tweaked the mission once again. The client had new, undisclosed information. There was a third party in the picture. He was a threat, too.

  This time, Carter’s usual pep talk wasn’t doing the trick. This latest mission wasn’t the war zone come home. It wasn’t a situation where everyone had signed on to play the game.

  He wasn’t sure why he had puked. Was it the realization of what he’d already done? The pressure of what was expected of him next? The fact that, as hard as he had tried to become the man who’d accomplished what he had in the past two years, he’d been given an assignment that he couldn’t bring himself to execute? If this job crossed the line, where was the line? And how many times had he already blazed right over it?

  He had lived the last two years in a lie. Lying to the clients. Lying to himself. He wasn’t the man who’d earned all that money. He wasn’t the hired gun who could carry out this next job. He wasn’t . . . Carter. And he had no idea what he was supposed to do next.

  He walked out of the hotel without checking out. He went to a cash machine and withdrew the maximum amount of four hundred dollars. He had a foreign bank account under an untraceable name that he could get to later. He had saved about four hundred grand so far. It wouldn’t last a lifetime, but it was enough. Enough for him to walk away.

  In about ten minutes, the client would figure out that a man who was supposed to be dead was still alive.

  He passed a thrift store and remembered a book he’d read about an ex-military drifter who traveled the world with nothing but a toothbrush. Five minutes later, he paid twenty-eight bucks for a pair of used Levi’s, a white canvas work shirt, and a pair of Timberland boots. He stuffed his own clothing in a trash can on Forty-fourth. He’d learned that GPS devices could be planted anywhere. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  A bus was heading his way on Seventh Avenue. The adverti
sement plastered across the side promised a new beginning through weight loss.

  He threw his phone under the front tire as it passed. Heard the crunch. Looked down over the curb to make sure it was in pieces.

  A kid stepped out of Chipotle shoving a football-sized burrito in his face. “Dude.” He spoke through a full mouth. “Your gear is toast. Bummer.”

  As Carter passed a pay phone, he thought about calling in an anonymous tip about his client and the man Carter had been instructed to kill. But they wouldn’t believe him. And they’d trace the call. Police response in midtown could be fast.

  It was time for him to walk away. Carter was free.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  By the time McKenna got back to the city, it was after nine o’clock. She felt like she’d been awake for four days straight. Had it really been only that morning that Agent Mercado had summoned her to the Federal Building?

  Patrick had called her eleven times and had left three additional messages.

  Hey, it’s me again. Where are you? Call me at home, okay?

  McKenna. You’re starting to worry me. You had a shitty day. I know. I want to help. Call me, okay?

  All right, I’m trying not to lose it here. But you call me at work telling me you were questioned by an FBI agent about some ecoterrorism group and had your office searched. Someone’s setting you up at work. And now you’re gone? For hours? Maybe you’re working on something. I don’t know. Just call me. Even a text. Something. I’m still home. Okay. Bye.

  She would have to face him eventually. She stepped outside to make the call. There was no answer at the apartment. When she tried his cell, she heard a ring, followed by a long tone, a ring, followed by a long tone. He was on the phone.

  If he were home and on his cell, he would have picked up the apartment phone when it rang. At this time of night, he would know it was McKenna. He’d want to know where she was.

  Which meant he wasn’t home. Maybe he was looking for her? But that wouldn’t make any sense. If he were so worried, wouldn’t he be glued to the apartment, waiting for the phone to ring? But he wasn’t, which meant that he was doing something besides waiting for her. He was doing something that he’d lie to her about later.

  He was probably talking to Susan again. She tried to tell herself there must be an explanation. Maybe Susan had a good reason for leaving, and he was doing the right thing by helping her now. The fact that Susan had jumped in front of an oncoming train to save Nicky Cervantes suggested that she was the same kind person at heart. Her instinct to rescue others was ingrained.

  But to leave like that? To let missing posters go up all over the city? To watch as her friends and family mourned her? To keep that a secret for ten years?

  McKenna could still hear the coldness in Patrick’s voice. I have it under control. Problem solved. And then to call her moments later with Hey, babe.

  Maybe he and Susan were spies. Maybe Patrick was a national hero. Maybe he had a secret storage unit filled floor to ceiling with war medals for saving the country from alien invasion time and again. But to bifurcate his life that way? To know her for ten years—marriage for five—showing one face to her and one to Susan and whomever the hell else who knew whatever secrets they were carrying?

  It didn’t matter why he had lied to her. She was afraid of him. She was afraid of her own husband.

  She was so tired. She couldn’t think straight anymore. She needed to sleep. Where the hell was she going to sleep?

  She was checking out last-minute hotel offers online when she realized she wasn’t sure how she would pay for it. All of their credit cards were in both of their names. Patrick would be monitoring her charges.

  She had friends, but they were all “couple friends” at this point, which meant making up a story to explain her need for a crash pad, then having to explain why she’d lied once Patrick started calling around for her.

  Fuck!

  She scrolled through the contacts on her phone. Who the hell could she call? And then she knew.

  Dana picked up on the second ring. “Holy hell, woman. All hail the renegade! Who knew you could go all gangsta?”

  “I know,” McKenna said. “It’s absolutely insane.”

  “That stunt you pulled with the magazine’s Twitter feed? Freakin’ brilliant!”

  McKenna hadn’t checked the Twitter progress since she’d left for Jersey City. “Are people retweeting?”

  “Oh my God. You’ve totally gone viral. Huff Post even put it on the front page of the Media section. Please tell me you’ve got your whole revenge plan up and ready to roll. Is it going to be like that TV show where the crazy bitch goes after a different enemy every week? You bringing a fire to their house or what?”

  McKenna had always suspected that Dana’s passion had nothing to do with the magazine, but she never would have guessed that the usually unanimated hipster would be so enthusiastic about a workplace scandal.

  “No fires. But I do have a huge favor to ask.”

  “Hit it.”

  “Can I crash at your place? I know it’s a lot to ask, but Patrick’s out of town, and a reporter just showed up at my apartment wanting to talk about the Knight e-mails. I just need a break, and seeing as how I don’t exactly have a salary anymore, a hotel would—”

  “Just stop, okay? Of course it’s fine. Not exactly the Taj Mahal, but I got a sweet daybed from CB2 that should suit you fine. When are you coming?”

  “Soon. If that’s okay.”

  “No problem. And I’ve got a surprise when you get here.”

  “Okay. Um, where am I going?” She’d never even been to the woman’s home and was inviting herself over for a slumber party.

  “Oh, duh.” Dana gave her an address in Brooklyn. “Call me when you’re out front.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Dana’s address turned out to be for a three-story townhouse in Prospect Heights. McKenna called upstairs from the street, and Dana soon appeared at an open window on the top floor. “Catch!”

  McKenna dodged to the left before the key chain hit her in the kneecaps. Upstairs, Dana was cracking up. “You can’t catch for shit! Third floor. Hopefully you can walk better than you field.”

  At the apartment door, Dana said, “Come on in. I’ll give you the tour. This is— Well, this is pretty much it.” She had already opened the daybed and made it up, leaving barely enough room to walk between the open bed and the small TV stand in front of it. Beneath the window was a large desk with two laptops, a giant printer, and stacks of prints. To the side was a narrow galley kitchen.

  “Oh, no. Am I taking your only bed?”

  “In your dreams, McKenna. Your suppressed lesbian dreams. Nope, over here.” Past the desk, she opened two sliding doors that McKenna had assumed belonged to a closet. Inside was enough space for a full-size bed and a dresser. Compact but efficient, the way a starter New York City apartment should be.

  “Thanks again for letting me crash. I promise it’ll just be for the night.”

  Dana handed her a full glass of wine from the kitchen counter. “Figured you could use this after the day you’ve had.”

  McKenna was happy to accept the offer. Dana clinked her own glass against McKenna’s. “To unemployment.”

  The wine was awful, but McKenna said, “Mmm, nice.” She hadn’t known what good wine tasted like when she was twenty-five years old, either. “Word to the wise, though. Don’t joke about unemployment, especially in this economy. Take it from me.”

  “Not just you. Me, too. I quit today.”

  “What?”

  “Solidarity, sister.” Dana held up her fist in a power salute. “Fuck the man. The way they threw you out with no notice?”

  “Oh, no, no, no, no. Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “No way. I’m out of there.”

  “You can’t. Call Vance tom
orrow morning and tell him you were mad and made a mistake. He’ll take you back. He’s a good guy.”

  “Yeah, right. He was really good when he was shoving a knife in your back.”

  “Do not do this for me.” Dana was just a dumb kid with a degree from the New School in some kind of art thing that McKenna had never heard of. A heavily tattooed photographer wouldn’t exactly be a hot ticket on the job market, and—based on her digs—she didn’t seem to have a trust fund lying around. “I’ll be fine. I can always go back to practice. Last time I checked, people still needed lawyers to get them out of jail and whatnot.”

  “I didn’t do it for you. I mean, yeah, today seemed like the day to pull the trigger. But I hate it there. I only do it for the paycheck, and it’s not even a good paycheck. I just want to take my weird pictures and make cool stuff that oddball people like me will want to hang on their walls.”

  “Yeah, but you were doing that stuff on the magazine’s clock, anyway.”

  “Caught me. Really, though, it’s fine. My friend’s dad owns this huge photography studio—one of the big factories that does a ton of weddings and bar mitzvahs. He said he’ll let me do assistant stuff to help pay the bills. It’s better dough than the magazine, so I was already thinking about doing it. But telling Vance it was because of the way they were treating you made it seem a lot more rock-star.”

  McKenna could see the appeal. “All right, then. Solidarity, sister.” She drank more of the wine, suppressing a wince at the paint-thinner flavor.

  Dana took a seat on the unfolded bed. “Sorry, only place to sit without going in the bedroom, but, don’t worry, I don’t like you that much.” McKenna laughed and joined her. “Now, please, please, please tell me what’s going on. I know there’s no. way. you doctored up those e-mails about Judge Knight. At first I was thinking it could have been Knight himself who set you up. Like, he heard you were running a story exposing all his courthouse crassness to the world, so he decided to discredit the messenger.”