Sometime later the phone woke her. Her eyes fluttered open. Her hand went to her mouth, where there was a line of drool. Rex was no longer on her lap. The Kardashians were no longer on the TV. She squinted at the clock on the wall, saw it was nearly four o’clock. In the afternoon? No, she realized, it was still dark outside, so it must be the morning. Who would be calling her this early?
She fumbled for her phone, saw who was calling, answered it with a groan.
“Tom, do you have any idea what time it is?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, after a long moment, his voice soft: “I thought you should hear it first from me.”
His tone was one she hadn’t expected, especially at this early hour. It sobered her, and she sat up straight on the couch, trying to focus herself as she spoke the next two words.
“What happened?”
eleven
Someone’s shaking me.
At first I think it’s just part of the dream I’m having, this phantom hand on my arm, but the truth is I don’t know if I am dreaming. I’m just floating more than anything else, that soothing slumber of sleep, and the hand, it keeps shaking me, accompanied now by a voice, a faint, distant voice saying my name.
I open my eyes.
Duncan is crouched over me in the dark, his hand on my shoulder.
“John, wake up. Wake up!”
I shrug off his hand, yawning as I start to sit up. “What are you doing? What time is it?”
“Nearly five. I, um ...” He stands there, all at once looking confused, embarrassed, a strange look for a guy who revels in anonymous sex and is well worth over seven figures. I notice now that he’s not wearing a black shirt, like he requested, but a fucking plaid long sleeve. He clears his throat. “There’s something on the TV I think you should see.”
I yawn again, lean back down on my bed. “Can’t it wait?”
“No, man, I think you really need to see this. Like, right now.”
Even though I’m half asleep, there’s something in his tone that gives me pause. Also, when has Duncan ever come into my room, either day or night? Never. The guy gives me my privacy, and besides, it’s not like we’re good friends. Roommates, sure, though I may be more an indentured servant at times, and yeah, occasionally we’ll watch a movie and share a pizza or takeout, but that’s usually as far as it goes. I never ask about what’s going on in his life, and he never asks what’s going on in my life. Even this past weekend, when I briefly attended my father’s funeral and was gone for nearly the whole day, he didn’t ask and I didn’t volunteer any information.
Relenting, I climb out of bed and follow him down the hall to the living room. There’s an empty Tostitos bag on the couch, only a few crumbs left. If I remember correctly, that was a brand new bag when I saw it earlier tonight in the kitchen, which means Duncan must have devoured the whole thing when he came home, what, an hour ago? For a guy who plays video games all day, I don’t understand how he manages to keep the weight off. Must be all the sex.
But the current state of the Tostitos or his ultra fast metabolism isn’t the reason Duncan woke me up. The reason, whatever it is, is currently on TV, evidenced by the fact that Duncan is now pointing at the screen.
“That?” I ask. “You woke me up for a fucking infomercial?”
On the screen that crazy guy is selling that crazy product—you probably know the one—and without even waiting for a reply I start heading back down the hall toward my room.
“No, man, wait up. It was just on here, breaking news and shit. Here, let me try another channel.”
I pause, sigh, turn back around. I sink into the couch as Duncan hefts the remote and flips through the channels. I’m sitting on the end of the couch, my elbow on the armrest, my hand cradling my head. I’m still half asleep, and ready to drift off at any second.
But then I hear it, a half second before Duncan says, “This is it!” and turns up the volume. I hear the reporter say a name, a name I know very well. I hear the reporter use the words tragic and death, and it wakes me up all at once, like getting a freezing bucket of water thrown in my face.
The reporter holds the mike just like she’s been trained, staring straight back into the camera, saying, “Right now police aren’t giving many details, but as you can see behind me, they have covered Melissa Baxter’s body.”
Behind the reporter, flashing lights brighten the night. The cameraman—perhaps listening to his conscience not to give in to the news media’s standard sensationalism—doesn’t pan to the group of people (presumably cops and detectives) standing over something that’s been covered with a tarp. But they are in the background, enough so the viewers can glimpse them and paint a picture in their minds.
“Catalina,” another voice says, the deep baritone of a male newscaster no doubt snug and secure in the studio, “do the police suspect there was foul play involved, or is it apparent that Assistant District Attorney Baxter jumped after this alleged murder-suicide?”
Catalina doesn’t even blink, keeping her focus straight on the camera. “We still don’t know much, Tim. Police say they will make a statement soon, but what we have learned is that Melissa Baxter’s husband and children have been found dead.”
The picture flips to the newsroom, a gray-haired, bronze-tanned man nodding appreciatively. “Thanks, Catalina.” Then, staring straight into the camera: “We will be staying with this story closely and will update the information once we hear more.”
Duncan hits the mute button, tosses the remote aside. He shakes his head, starts pacing the living room, muttering, “Vultures, man. Fucking vultures!”
I don’t speak. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
“I remember you mentioning your sister a while back. Like, I think it was when she was promoted to Assistant District Attorney. And tonight, after I got home, I’m just chilling here watching some TV when this fucking breaking news thing comes over, and they say what’s happened and I’m like, holy fucking shit.”
He stops pacing and looks at me.
“John, are you okay? You look pale.”
Still I don’t speak. I’m not sure what to say. I mean, what’s the appropriate thing to say when you find out your sister has allegedly murdered her family before committing suicide? I don’t know which building she lives in, exactly, but I know the area of the city, and they’re all tall buildings. Twenty stories at least, forty or fifty stories at most. How long does it take someone to step off the roof or out of one of their windows before they hit the ground? No more than a couple of seconds, surely, but just how fast is it for the person tumbling through the air, watching the ground growing larger and larger?
“Seriously, man”—Duncan takes a few hesitant steps toward me—“you need something to drink? Something to eat?”
“My dad died last week.”
“What?”
“He killed himself. Took a gun and shot his brains out.”
Duncan sits down on the chair facing me. “What are you talking about?”
“My old man. I barely knew him. Never saw him. Never talked to him. In fact, I don’t even remember the last time I talked to him. Actually, wait, I do remember. It was right after I got back to the States. I was out of money. I called him and asked him for more. And do you know what he basically told me? To fuck off.”
Duncan says nothing.
“And now my sister, she ... she fucking kills herself, less than a week after our old man kills himself. What do you think makes it happen?”
When Duncan speaks, his voice is soft. “What do you mean?”
“People killing themselves. It’s some chemical imbalance in the head, right? Like, there’s medication whose side effects make people suicidal. So it’s like a trigger, or switch, or something. It gets turned on, you just, what, want to kill yourself? Or, fuck, kill your family and then yourself?”
Duncan doesn’t speak.
I ask, “What time is it?”
Duncan slips his phone from his pocket to
check the time. “Nearly five thirty.”
I rise to my feet. “I should head back to bed. I need to be at the store by nine.”
Duncan rises to his feet, too. He watches me walk past him. “Maybe you shouldn’t go in,” he says.
“I need to go in.”
“But after everything that’s just happened? I mean ... it’s messed up, man. Take some time off. Just ...”
I turn back to him. “Just what?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Mourn or something.”
I nod at the TV. “Thanks for letting me know about that. I appreciate it.”
Before Duncan can say anything else, I turn and head back to my bedroom, walking in sort of a daze, not thinking about anything in particular. When I reach my door and open it, I don’t even bother flipping on the light. I just walk in, and the darkness swallows me whole.
part two
______________
RESURRECTION
twelve
“Are you sure you want to read this?”
Without a word, Ashley held out her hand.
Tom threw a cautious look to Eric, who was leaning against the window just like he was yesterday—in fact, the entire tableau was the same, with Tom behind his desk and Ashley in the chair—then handed Ashley the sheet of paper.
Ashley placed the sheet on her side of the desk, afraid that if she held it in her hands, it would be apparent to the two men (and herself) just how much she was shaking. She leaned forward to read the article, skipping over the distasteful headline—ADA DOA—and diving into the meat.
The room was quiet for a full minute, the only sounds that of the busy newsroom just outside the office. Finally Ashley handed the sheet back to Tom, leaned back in her chair, and said, “When is this going live?”
Tom glanced at his watch. “Should be online now. We’ll have a more detailed version for the front page when we go to press.”
“Who wrote it?”
“Pete Tass.”
“The headline is disrespectful.”
Tom released a slow breath, no doubt having prepared himself for this critique. “I know. Ashley, I’m sorry, but you know what it is we do here, how we run things.”
“We have to sell newspapers, right?”
Silence again.
Ashley said, “So what’s missing?”
“What do you mean?”
She motioned at the sheet of paper that summarized her friend’s death. “There’s nothing new there, not from the police statement. Supposedly she shot and killed her family, then went up to the roof and jumped.”
Eric chimed in: “Supposedly?”
“You don’t think it’s weird?” she asked him. “A woman in her position, who has had all the success she has, just decides to kill her husband and two sons—all of whom she loved dearly—and then kill herself right before the biggest trial of her career was scheduled to begin?”
Tom said, “Ashley, what are you trying to infer here? That Timothy Carrozza somehow set this all up to look like a murder-suicide? Even if that were possible—and not, I should add, completely insane—it wouldn’t stop his trial. It might delay it a bit, but it wouldn’t stop it. In fact, if anything, it would make more sense for him to go after the witness.”
She started to dispute this, reminding them that the witness still hadn’t yet been identified, telling them about the death threat, but stopped herself before she could even open her mouth. Maybe she was overthinking things. Stepping out on limbs that were way too flimsy. Tom was right—even if Carrozza had pulled off such an impressive feat, what would be his end game? The trial would continue. He would most likely get prosecuted. Case closed.
“I just had lunch with her yesterday, Tom. I’ve known her since college. She’s not the kind of person to do that.”
“Sometimes we don’t know people as well as we like to think we do. It’s sad, but it’s true. What happened to your friend, it’s awful, but it is what it is. Now, like I told you earlier, you don’t have to be here today if you don’t want to. Nobody will think any less of you.”
Leaving was the last thing she wanted to do. Even earlier this morning, when she had gotten the phone call from Tom, she told him she would be in. But she didn’t want to be in this room any longer, that was for sure. Not with these two, who, just yesterday, said without saying that her job was on the line if she didn’t reach out to her friend on the paper’s behalf.
She thanked them and stepped out into the newsroom, ignoring the glances if there were any. She headed for her desk, then made a detour at the last second.
Jeff was in his cubicle. He was on the phone, leaning back in his chair, squeezing his stress ball. He looked up at her, stared for a moment, then said, “Hey, can I call you right back?” before cradling the phone. He rose to his feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in his pants. “Ashley, I’m so sorry about your friend. I can’t even imagine—”
She shook him off. “You want to make it up to me? I need your help.”
• • •
“A death threat? I never heard anything about that.”
“They were keeping it low key. Melissa didn’t want there to be a big fuss.”
“So, what, you think Carrozza had her taken out?”
They were in the stairwell, just the two of them, their voices soft and hushed.
“I don’t know,” Ashley admitted. “Probably not. But, Jeff, I’m telling you, this isn’t something she would do. I know her.”
“Look,” he said, crossing his arms, leaning back against the wall, “I know it’s tough to accept when shit like this happens, but everybody has secrets, stuff their families and even their best friends don’t know about.”
“So you haven’t heard anything else?”
He shook his head. “My focus was on the trial. This right here, this isn’t my beat.”
“But don’t you have contacts?”
“I know some cops, sure, but—”
“Call them.”
He sighed. “Ashley—”
“You always talk about being a real journalist. A real journalist doesn’t always accept the story given to him, right? He tracks down all the facts until he knows, one hundred percent, that the truth is the truth.”
He smiled. “Where did you get that bullshit?”
“I just thought it up.”
Withdrawing his cell phone from his pocket, he said, “You’re lucky I think you’re cute.”
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to tell your wife that next time I see her.”
Jeff dialed a number, placed the phone to his ear, and said, “Morgan, it’s Jeff Heller from the Post. Remember that favor you owe me?”
• • •
Morgan, it turned out, was a detective who routinely worked murder investigations. Unfortunately, the Melissa Baxter murder-suicide wasn’t his case. He said he knew the detectives working the case, though, and claimed he would see what he could do, but when Jeff relayed this information to Ashley—she had only heard Jeff’s side of the conversation—he didn’t sound hopeful.
“Thanks for trying at least,” she said.
“No problem.” He slipped his cell phone back in his pocket. “Now how about we go back out there and try to get some work done?”
But she didn’t know what she was going to work on now. Back at her desk, she trudged through her email but didn’t find any of it interesting. Celebrity sightings, fashion faux pas—who really gave a shit? She certainly didn’t. She acted like she did, yes, because that was her job, but when you considered the bigger picture—stuff like life and death—the mundaneness and narcissism of celebrity life was a drain on the soul.
An hour passed, then another hour, Ashley simply killing time at her desk, occasionally finding herself crying and quickly wiping the tears away with a tissue so nobody would notice, when Jeff poked his head up over her cubicle.
“Got something.” He started to step inside but paused, frowning at her. “Are you okay?”
She wondered whethe
r or not her mascara had run. “I’m fine. What’s up?”
He leaned back against her desk, his arms crossed again, his usual pose. He gave one quick cautious glance around the newsroom before he spoke, his voice low. “So Morgan called me back. He said he asked around and managed to find out some stuff.”
“Like what?”
“For starters, you were right about the death threat. Baxter received one last week, and even though she wanted to write it off, her office put protection on her.”
“Right. That’s nothing new.”
“They had people on her twenty-four-seven. Not in her apartment, mind you, but there was an officer stationed in the lobby. They also have cameras on all the exits and in the hallways. They have video of her walking out of her apartment and taking the elevator up to the top floor, then getting off and finding the stairs to the roof. She was alone.”
It wasn’t until then that Ashley realized she had been kidding herself. Of course Melissa was alone. Of course nobody had been involved—not Timothy Carrozza, not some phantom masked man, not anybody. There was no grand conspiracy. She had known Melissa for nearly ten years, it was true, but that didn’t mean she had known everything there was to know about her friend. Tom was right: sometimes we don’t know people as well as we like to think we do.
Legion Page 6
