Have You Seen Me?

by Kate White

  While Roger fires up the engine and pulls the car away from the curb, I summon the info on my phone, twice misspelling the term in my haste.

  “Okay, here it is: ‘Rigor is a result of chemical changes in the muscles following death, which cause the limbs to stiffen. It starts in the small muscles right after a person dies, and within twelve to twenty-four hours the body is completely stiff. . . . And then at about twenty-four hours from death, the limbs gradually soften up again. . . .’ Uh, it says if the air is cold, rigor can take longer to form. But I don’t recall it being chilly out that day.”

  “We don’t know what condition her body was in when the police retrieved it on Friday, but it sounds like when you found her, rigor mortis had fully set in.”

  “Right.” My breathing’s become shallow, and I force myself to inhale deeply. “And that means she’d probably been dead for a day when I came across her. Maybe longer. What I told the police today could help them pinpoint the time of death.”

  “But don’t you think they were able to do that years ago? I mean, they rely on other data, too, right?”

  “They must, but I’m sure they consider all the factors together—and I deprived them of a key piece of evidence. You said the other day that the mother didn’t report the girl missing right away. Do you know anything more specific about her and the boyfriend’s alibis?”

  “I probably did at the time, but not any longer.”

  “God, by lying about when I found her, I may have totally fucked up the case. It could have prevented someone from being prosecuted.”

  “Ally, first of all, you have to stop saying it was a lie. You were simply too frightened to recall and reveal every detail. And don’t get ahead of yourself. There’s more than a good chance your revelation doesn’t alter an iota of what was determined years ago. Why don’t I try to talk to the chief again tomorrow? Maybe I can get him to clue me in on the original investigation.”

  “Okay, but I’m not sure if the other detective will let him breathe a word. She’s pretty tough—and very much in charge.”

  “She wasn’t hard on you, was she?”

  “I don’t know exactly what you’d call it.” Summoning the encounter in my mind makes my stomach twist. “She seemed sympathetic at first—she even said it was really normal for kids to withhold information—but things started to shift.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She asked me a few questions more than once, like she hadn’t been paying enough attention when she first asked them. But I think she wanted to see if my answers matched. And then she wondered if I thought Jaycee had been killed by someone who hadn’t really meant to hurt her. How could my opinion on that possibly matter?”

  A car horn blares, and Roger jerks the steering wheel to the right. I’m making it hard for him to concentrate.

  “I wouldn’t put much stock in that,” he says. “As far as we know, she probably did some kind of detective training program where they teach you a certain style.”

  “I guess. . . . I’m going to have to tell Dad about this sooner or later, aren’t I? Because if my statement makes a difference, it’s all going to come out.”

  The idea only adds to my discomfort. This is the last thing my dad needs right now.

  “Why don’t you hold off thinking about that for now? I hate the idea of telling him over the phone. I may end up flying out there in a few weeks and I could bring him up to speed in person.”

  “Okay. Maybe I could even go with you.”

  “I’d love that, Button. . . . What time did you schedule your Uber for?”

  I glance at my watch. “Fifteen minutes from now.” I knew I’d been cutting it a little close, but I figured I could change it if the police kept us waiting.

  Roger reaches out with his free hand and gives my fingers a squeeze. “Why don’t you push it back? We could have a glass of wine at the house or I could make you a cappuccino. You know what a good barista I am.”

  I express my thanks but tell him no. Part of me is sorely tempted to stay, but I need to get home and finally fill Hugh in. Plus, hanging at Roger’s will increase my chance of running into Marion, who’s bound to be back from Princeton by now.

  And sure enough, she strides from the kitchen as we enter the house, dressed smartly in beige slacks and a matching V-neck cashmere sweater. Even from across the room I can smell her fragrance, that cloying mix of roses and jasmine.

  “So how did it go today?” she asks, advancing. Her eyes flick back and forth between Roger and me as if she’s watching a tennis match.

  “Very perfunctory,” Roger says, covering. “Ally talked to them, they asked her a few questions, and that was it.”

  She allows her gaze to light on me. “Oh, but it must have been hard for you, dear.”

  “Thanks, but it wasn’t so bad.”

  “Well, hopefully this is one of those cold cases they’ll be able to finally close.”

  “Would you mind if I poured myself a glass of water?” I ask her. “I have to take off in a minute.”

  “I’d be glad to get it for you,” she says and disappears.

  Next to me, Roger scratches the back of his neck, looking distracted. He’s asked Marion nothing about her friend, the ditched wife, so maybe it really was a story concocted to explain her absence.

  As I check my phone and report to Roger that my Uber is two minutes away, Marion returns with a glass of ice water, a small wedge of lemon bobbing on top. Am I too hard on her?

  She and I say good-bye with an awkward hug, and Roger sees me outside, where a gray Toyota soon pulls up.

  “Button, promise me you won’t let this eat at you,” Roger advises. “The bottom line is that you did the right thing by going in today. You have no reason to feel anything but good about that.”

  “Thanks, Rog. If Nowak does share details about the case with you, will you let me know as soon as possible?”

  “Will do. By the way, I forgot to mention earlier that I looked up Dr. Hadley, and she passed away a couple of years ago. No one seems to have taken over her practice and that means her records might be long gone.”

  I nod, resigned—I hadn’t expected any luck on this front—and hug my brother tightly. When I open the car door, the driver confirms my identity, and a minute later we’re off. I twist in my seat to see Roger moving quickly into the house.

  We’ve barely left the driveway when I spot a text from Hugh.

  How was the visit with Roger?

  Good. Will fill u in later

  Great. Any problem if I work til 8 here? I need access to files.

  Sure, no prob. see u then.

  Despite my response, I’m frustrated. I now have so much to update Hugh on, and I feel the need to do it tonight, before I’m rear-ended by another discovery or situation.

  I suddenly notice I have a voice mail that must have come in while I had my phone off at the police station. It’s from Mulroney.

  “Call me,” he says. “I’ve got news.”

  Grabbing a breath, I phone back immediately, but to my chagrin, he doesn’t pick up. “I’m available all day from this point on,” I say in my message, not disguising how desperate I am to speak to him.

  I’m about to scroll through emails when Nicole finally returns my call from the morning.

  “Sorry to miss you earlier,” she says. “But remember, I mentioned I was only coming in for the afternoon today?”

  “Oh, right, yes.” Something she’d told me weeks ago about how she’d been unable to find an earlier flight back from Jamaica wiggles into my head. Another memory slip on my part.

  “I’ll make up the hours at—”

  “Don’t worry about it. How was the wedding?” I say, at least recalling that.

  “Nice. Of course, my sister wanted to save money by holding it during hurricane season, and we’re just incredibly lucky the weather was okay. . . . Um, listen, I saw your question about Greenbacks. There must be some kind of misunderstanding. I never called anyone there.
”

  “But if it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  Nicole hesitates briefly.

  “Uh, I hate to throw anyone under the bus . . .”

  “Just tell me, Nicole. Please.”

  I hear a quick intake of breath on the other end. I’ve never been short with her before.

  “It may have been Sasha.”

  Why would Sasha be calling over there?

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I overheard her on the phone when she dropped by our office a couple of weeks ago, and she mentioned Greenbacks. I don’t think she was talking to anyone in the company then, just talking about the place, but it caught my attention because I know you used to work there.”

  “Can you imagine any reason she would contact them?”

  “Not really. I never ask her to handle any research involving the book or the column, so maybe it had something to do with the podcast.”

  I’m very clear with Sasha about who she should be calling regarding the podcast and I’ve never mentioned the name Greenbacks.

  “Thanks, I’ll speak to her. And look, I know you and I need to catch up about the book. I’ve been a bit under the weather lately, but I’ll definitely be coming into WorkSpace tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I’ll have everything ready to review.”

  With the conversation concluded, I’m about to call Sasha and get to the bottom of the situation, when my phone rings. Mulroney’s name lights up my screen.

  “What’s up?” I say, gripping the phone.

  “We’re starting to put pieces of the puzzle together.”

  Okay, wow.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I should have more later, but let me tell you what I’ve turned up so far. I’ll start with Tuesday morning. You left your apartment building at around nine wearing a dark trench coat—I determined this through video footage, by the way—and for the next hour and a half or so, you hung out in a café kind of place called—I’ve never been sure how to say it—Le Pain Quotidien, several blocks from your home.”

  “That would make sense,” I say, not bothering to correct his pronunciation, which made the last word in the name sound like quotient. “If I need a change of scenery, I sometimes go over there with my laptop. Except—except I don’t have a digital record of working on anything that day.”

  “According to a waitress I spoke to, you ordered tea or coffee—she doesn’t remember which—and leafed through a couple of magazines. She’s almost positive you had a purse and thinks she remembers you looking at your phone but isn’t sure.”

  “The magazine part is the only thing that’s odd. I usually don’t do that sort of thing in the middle of a workday.”

  Of course, maybe I simply needed to decompress after fighting with Hugh the night before.

  “She says the main reason she remembers is that when you were paying the bill, you asked if she wanted the magazines, and she took them. She said you seemed pretty distracted and told her you were in a rush and needed to get the train to Forty-Second Street. You paid in cash.”

  “Forty-Second Street?” I feel myself squinting in confusion.

  “Can you think of any reason you would head there?”

  “None. I usually do a podcast on Tuesdays at a studio on Ninth Avenue and Forty-Eighth, but we weren’t recording that particular day. And there’d be no reason for me to go as far south as Forty-Second. I try to avoid Times Square as much as I can.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Do you think if something did happen to me that day, it might have been in that area?”

  “Possibly, though we don’t know how long you were there. Could you search your emails for any reference to Forty-Second Street, in case an appointment slipped your mind?”

  Well, that’s one way to put it.

  “Will do.”

  “Now on to Wednesday, where I have an even bigger surprise. I dropped by Eastside Eats and it turns out there’s a second location—on East Seventh Street—and that’s where you actually bought food that day. A counter person there recalls you coming in around the lunch hour. The charge on your credit card bill would have indicated the name but not the address.”

  “That one makes even less sense,” I exclaim. “I would have no reason whatsoever to be in the East Village.”

  “You ordered a sandwich, she thinks. Maybe coffee, too. She remembers you because—and you can’t take this personally—she was worried at first that the credit card you were using might not be yours.”

  “What?”

  “She thought you seemed a little disheveled and you hesitated before signing your name. Plus, you didn’t have a purse. You pulled the card out of your coat pocket, which means that if you did still have your purse with you when you lost your phone on Tuesday, it was gone by this point.”

  “Weird,” I say, baffled. “My purse was missing, but I still had a credit card.”

  “Yeah. Doesn’t sound like you were mugged.”

  For a minute I’m silent, attempting to absorb everything he’s shared so far. It’s like one of those times when a friend tells you a story about something funny or crazy you did one night years ago when the two of you were out barhopping together, but you can’t recall a single, solitary moment of the evening.

  “I think I should go down to the East Village,” I announce finally.

  “That’s a good idea. It might trigger a memory. Start at Eastside Eats and then walk around the area, too. I don’t have a complete picture yet, but it seems like you spent quite a bit of time there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You came to the sandwich shop from farther east and headed back in that direction when you left. And we also found footage of you walking near Tompkins Square Park, along the western end.”

  “I don’t get it. I once took a night class at NYU and used to explore the area when I was down there, but that was years ago, right after I moved to the city after graduation.”

  “We’ll figure it out. I need to jump on another call, but let’s speak later.”

  After we sign off, I fling myself back against the seat. I have no reason to doubt Mulroney, but his revelations aren’t computing for me. What was I doing in that part of the city?

  And more importantly, what had caused me to run from myself and everything that mattered to me?

  20

  Due to bad traffic, I don’t make it back to the city until close to seven. But that still means I have an hour to kill before Hugh arrives home. I peel off my dress, change into jeans and a sweater, and order dinner for the two of us from Pavone’s. That’s twice in seven days, but I lack the energy to devise a more original plan.

  Next, I do as Mulroney suggested and search through my emails for any reference to Forty-Second Street. There’s nothing. But when I sit down to flesh out and update my timeline, I realize that with Mulroney’s help, I’m definitely making progress.

  MONDAY

  evening: dinner, TV, argument

  TUESDAY

  7:00: still in bed

  9:00-ish: took call from Dr. Erling

  9:00–9:17: sent emails

  9:30: hung out at café

  11:00-ish: left for 42nd Street

  Before 3:00: possibly witnessed someone get injured???; lost phone

  3:00 to 3:30-ish: called WorkSpace

  WEDNESDAY

  Noon-ish: bought food at Eastside Eats, East 7th St.

  Afternoon: walked near Tompkins Square Park

  THURSDAY

  8:05: arrived at Greenbacks

  Now I turn to my laptop and google rigor mortis again, doing a deeper dive than I’d been able to in the car with Roger. It turns out there are other variables besides air temperature that can stall its onset or hasten the process. Muscle mass or recent exercise, for instance. But the bottom line is that the stiffening of muscles begins a few hours after death, reaches its peak approximately twelve hours after death, remains that way for twelve more hours, and then subsides, completely dissipat
ing by the thirty-six-hour mark.

  Which makes one thing pretty clear: Since Jaycee’s body already seemed frozen when I accidentally kicked it on Wednesday at three thirty, she must have been killed much earlier, possibly Tuesday. By Friday, her body would have passed out of rigor.

  I keep reading. Rigor isn’t the only factor a coroner relies on in determining time of death. There’s also body temperature, stomach contents, and something called lividity, the settling of blood in the lowest surface of the body postmortem, causing purplish-red discoloration of the skin. All those years ago, the Millerstown area coroner obviously took those factors into consideration when making his or her determination. But still, if I’d been completely forthright, it would have certainly been of help.

  I take a long, deep breath and type “Jaycee Long” into the search bar. I probably should have done that six or seven weeks ago when I first started discussing my past with Dr. Erling, but I wasn’t able to summon the nerve.

  To my surprise, there’s next to nothing online. It seems like the area newspaper that serves my hometown didn’t begin digitally archiving stories until about two years after the murder. I’m going to have to trek to the library out there and comb through microfilm to read news coverage of the crime.

  Though maybe I won’t have to. If I’m lucky, Chief Nowak will be amenable to sharing details with Roger about the original investigation, including how seriously the mother and her boyfriend were viewed as suspects.

  Mercifully, the intercom jars me from my thoughts, signaling that dinner has arrived. I pay at the door, set the food out on the counter, and pour myself a glass of wine. My whole body is vibrating with tension.

  By the time Hugh arrives home, it’s after eight—8:25, actually. He gives me a quick hug and yanks off his tie.

  “So sorry. The case is such a mess.”

  He returns from the bedroom a few minutes later wearing jeans but still in his blue-collared shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The sight of him dressed like that fills me with tenderness. He’d worn his shirt that way on our second date—our third encounter—and the night when I began to feel the first spark of desire.

  Desire. I realize that the last time we had sex was the Sunday before I fell apart.