Tricia waggled her fingers in the air, not sure what to do with them now. “I think Richard and Rebecca are going to take Davey back to the city as soon as Detective Cook says it’s okay.”
Cassady shuddered. “Whoever thought those two would be the calm, responsible ones in any equation.”
Tricia sneered. “I give Rebecca eighteen hours before she’s drinking again. And I give Richard a week before he dumps her again.”
“Detective Cook must not have anything concrete or she would’ve acted on it. One more reason to join the general flow back to the city … Can you get a guest list, Tricia?” I asked.
She nodded emphatically “Nelson will give it to me if I tell him I want to start writing thank-you notes. Nelson’s very into protocol.” She noticed Cassady looking at her oddly. “What?”
“I’m trying to imagine the note. ‘Dear Friend, We deeply regret the murder of our guest of honor and want to thank you for minding your manners while being questioned by the local constabulary.’” Cassady scrunched her nose at me. “Guess you’re not getting a note.”
“Tricia asked me to help,” I pointed out.
“I did and I appreciate it,” Tricia said quickly. “And I appreciate your tackling this as a friend, and not as a journalist.”
My reaction must not have been as enigmatic as I had hoped, because Tricia’s expression fell in on itself. “Please don’t, Molly.”
“Eileen called and asked me to follow the story, that’s all. I haven’t committed to anything. Except helping David.”
Tricia’s face contorted one more time, buffeted by all her warring fears and emotions. She leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek. “Travel safe,” she whispered and left the room before I could think of anything to say—helpful, stupid, or otherwise.
Cassady sighed. “I’m surprised she’s holding up as well as she is.”
I vented some frustration on the stubborn zipper of my suitcase. “Shouldn’t investigating be easier the second time around?”
“I believe that’s love and I believe that’s a crock. I also believe you’re doing the right thing in helping and that Tricia knows that, she’s just having trouble with all the other aspects of the situation. She and David have always been so close and even though she didn’t like Lisbet, it’s still a loss.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of being right?”
“I have no other experience to compare it to.”
“Okay. Keep your profile low and don’t tick off Detective Cook.”
Cassady patted me on the head. “We’ll leave that to the expert.”
Kyle clearly felt I’d done enough of that already, which had been his primary motivation in getting me out of the Hamptons. Now, mulling it over as he drove, I felt all my efforts could be interpreted as helpful, even if he didn’t agree. As a result, I was doing us both a favor to stay quiet about the Web site until I had a chance to talk to Jake and find out what else he might have shot. I didn’t want to muddy the picture for anyone; I wanted to clarify it.
And while we were seeking clarity, this was a good time to try and get Kyle back on the train of thought Aunt Cynthia had derailed with her garbage-hunting announcement. We were alone in the car, no one’s cell had rung, there was minimal traffic. Perfect talk time. But the trick was, how to dangle the hook without getting busted for fishing.
“You’re right, it was time to leave.”
Kyle slid me a suspicious look. “Okay.”
“And I know Detective Cook’s just doing her job.”
He nodded vigorously. “You don’t want to get in her way, Molly. She can make life miserable for all involved. You also don’t want to distract her from nailing the proper party.”
I hadn’t intended to turn this into a cheerleading session for the devoted Detective Cook. Time to throw my weight in another direction and see if the boat turned.
“Guess I’m spoiled, having had such wonderful police cooperation the last time I was involved in something like this.”
His smile slid back into place. “Cooperation. That’s what that was called?”
“When it’s done right.”
“We were lucky.”
“Lucky, not good?”
“We are good.” He kept his eyes on the road, but I turned to look at him full on. It was one of those tremulous soap bubble moments when you don’t want to breathe wrong, much less speak wrong, for fear of the whole thing exploding before you can absorb it.
“Yes, we are. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support.”
“Welcome.”
“Professionally and personally.”
“Uh-huh.”
“As someone who … How’d you put it?”
Kyle grinned, his suspicions confirmed to his great delight. “I didn’t.”
I couldn’t help it. His grin was infectious and even though I should have been frustrated and thwarted, I grinned back. “But we’re good.”
“Yeah.”
“Good enough for me to ask where you were last night when I called?”
“Out with some other detectives, having a drink. Why?”
“I just … heard something …”
He snorted. “I told Maggie she was a loudmouth. ‘Busted,’ right?” I nodded. “They were all complaining they had to get home and I said no one was waiting up for me and …”
“Sorry.” The outsider had intruded on his cop world and he’d gotten grief for it.
“No.” He ran the back of his hand along my arm. “It was kinda nice. We’re good. Honest.”
Good enough to go away for the weekend? Amazingly, I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Better to enjoy this moment for itself and push my luck another time. So for the rest of the trip, I just left it alone and we enjoyed the drive and each other, talking about things that didn’t matter terribly much, sampling his niece’s CDs, and even being comfortably quiet a time or two. But that’s hard for me under the best of circumstances and every time we grew quiet, I started trying to assemble the crime in my head, figuring out which lover of David’s had come out of the shadows without realizing that Lisbet had already decided it was over, and bashed her head in with a champagne bottle. But I kept it to myself and changed the CD whenever those thoughts intruded.
The warm buzz continued as he found a great parking spot near my building, helped me out of the car and into his arms for a kiss that was just the right length and pressure, and grabbed my bags out of the back. He greeted Danny the doorman warmly and escorted me up to my apartment without discussion. Another kiss as I unlocked the door and nothing in the world was as important as the next kiss and whether I had any decent wine.
He walked into the bedroom to put my bags down—another positive sign—so I wasn’t sure what the sound was the first time. The second time, I realized it was a cell phone. Before it rang a third time, he was answering it and I was praying for a wrong number.
Instead, I heard, “Yes, Detective Cook.”
It was a brief conversation and I couldn’t follow it well because he was being more monosyllabic than usual. As he emerged from the bedroom, all I could say was, “You gave her your cell?”
“Professional courtesy.” He slid his cell back into one pocket and dug the car keys out of the other.
I hoped my next question didn’t sound as petulant as I felt. “You need your keys?”
“I have to go in for a little while.”
“Out of professional courtesy.”
Kyle walked toward me slowly, holding my gaze the whole time with a certainty I found exasperating at the moment. “Persons of interest live in my jurisdiction and I offered my assistance in securing information to aid a fellow officer’s investigation.”
“And those persons of interest are more interesting than persons currently on the scene?” I asked, trying to keep it light and probably not doing nearly as good a job as I thought I was.
“Apples and oranges, babe,” he said, stopping just short of pressing his body aga
inst mine.
“Who are you checking out for her?”
“You already know way more than you should.”
“Who.”
“I’ll call you later.” He kissed me gently, lingering a moment, then walked to the door. “Stay out of trouble,” he said in the doorway.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I responded. Then I stood there and stared at the door for several minutes after it closed, trying to sort out the anger I felt at Detective Cook intruding on a promising evening, the frustration of Kyle knowing something I didn’t, and the disappointment that yet again, just when we were finding our groove, we’d gotten jolted out of it.
And what’s the best remedy for being blue about a guy walking out on you? Call another guy. Not advice I’d ever give in my column, for fear of sounding trampy, but it works.
So I called Jake, Tricia having tracked down his number before I left. The machine picked up on the second ring, probably already filled with messages as people heard about the Web site. “This is Jake. Impress me.”
Interesting approach for a guy who was far more interested in doing the impressing than in being impressed. But if that was the way the game was played, “Jake, it’s Molly Forrester. We sat together at David and Lisbet’s party last night. What a tragedy. But I’m working to distract myself from mourning and I was really captivated by your ‘wordless cinema’ concept and wanted to talk to you about it. Did I mention I write for Zeitgeist magazine, among others?” I left my number and hoped he’d be too smitten with the idea of media coverage to check my credits and realize I never wrote about film, aside from the kind a bad cleanser leaves on your skin.
It was already after seven. Maybe Jake and Lara were out for the evening. I was in. Not because I was going to sit and wait and see if Kyle came back, but because I needed some quiet time to piece things together so I could ask Jake the right questions. And if Kyle came back, that was fine, too.
I ordered in, Pad Thai with chicken, and sat down at my computer to take another look at Jake’s Web site. On my familiar screen, the images were somehow more disturbing, like porn magazines on my grandmother’s coffee table. There was definitely someone else out in the hall after David put Lisbet down. As David stormed away, Lisbet turned to talk to the unseen person and the film cut. Who was it? If no one had confessed to talking to Lisbet after the big scene, did that mean the person who did, this shadow in the hallway, was the killer?
The combination of adrenaline and Thai iced tea had me up and pacing, not a place I like to be at ten o’clock at night. Jake was the next piece of the puzzle, but I was going stir crazy waiting for him to call back. And if I called Kyle, it would come off as clingy, desperate, or distrustful, none of them attractive options.
I called Cassady’s cell, to see how she and Tricia were doing. Cassady answered in a hushed voice. “Tricia’s already asleep.”
“And you’re whispering? How thin are the walls there?”
“She took your bed, didn’t want to be by herself. She’s a wreck, Molly.”
My heart ached and that slowed my mind down a little. “Anything new from Detective Cook?”
“Detective Myerson told the Vincents they could go back to Manhattan, but nowhere else.”
“That’s promising for David.”
“We’ll head back tomorrow as soon as Lisbet’s parents finish making their arrangements. The Vincents want to help them through all that and Tricia wants to stay as long as her folks do.”
I told her about leaving word for Jake and prepared to say good-bye. But Cassady wasn’t done.
“Excuse me. How was the ride home?”
“Fine. Occasionally weird, but fine.”
“So is he there?”
“Nope. At work. Doing some stuff for Detective Cook.”
“Ouch.”
“Potential ouch.”
“Ouch nonetheless. Is he coming back?”
“Not my call.”
“Double ouch. I think I’ll call him and tell him to come back.”
“I think I’ll hang up now.”
We said our good-byes and I paced a little more. A thought nibbled at the edge of my consciousness, but I couldn’t identify it yet. The fact that it skittered away every time I tried to focus didn’t help either. It was so silent in the room, I found myself thinking of the jangle of Aunt Cynthia’s bangles. That’s what I needed. Music. And a nightcap.
Rummaging through the CD cabinet and through the liquor cabinet are both very soothing, since both hold the promise of delicious relaxation if the proper choices are made. I decided to tackle the decision as a matched set. Years ago, Drambuie had an advertisement featuring Ella Fitzgerald, so I always think of them complementing each other. Perhaps a Rusty Nail and the Cole Porter Songbook? Or maybe I needed to go even more mellow: Ron Sexsmith and a Brandy Alexander? Rufus Wainwright and a White Russian? Maybe I should just go for broke: Johnny Cash and shots of Jack Black. I have more than a few friends who dabble in psychopharmacology like they’re trading baseball cards: I’ll give you four Ambien for two Ritalin and a Percocet. But I prefer to modify my chemical imbalances the old-fashioned way. Hey, an old-fashioned. With a little Dave Brubeck.
So I threw on my pajamas, slid in the CD, and mixed the drink. I was near the end of the CD and close to the bottom of the glass when the phone rang. Since I was finally relaxing, I decided to let the machine get it. It was almost midnight and Kyle wouldn’t bother calling at this point just to tell me he wasn’t coming back. And I was fine with that. Really. Duty called, he answered, and I dealt.
But when the voice on the answering machine started with a shrill, “Hey, Molly! Got your message!” I dove for the phone.
“joke?”
“Are you screening? Am I interrupting something fun?”
“What could be more fun than talking to you, Jake?” When in doubt, go for the ego.
“Baby, not talking’s what I believe in.”
“I can imagine.”
“Why imagine when you can see it on-screen?”
So maybe the film vaults were a little fuller than I’d suspected. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to sit through anything awkward to get him to show me the party footage. “Still without words?” I asked.
“Actions speak louder, you know.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got this silly hang-up with words and I was hoping we could trade a few.”
“Anything else you want to trade?”
I could feel his leer through the phone. “Let’s take our time. As a filmmaker, you should appreciate the slow build to a climax.”
“You seen my tribute to Lisbet?”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
“What’s on-screen is only half of it. I’m still building the piece.”
Yes. I suddenly liked Jake a whole lot more than I’d ever thought possible. “How soon can I grab you?”
“Well, luckily for me, I’m being grabbed by someone else right now, so that’s not an option.”
I didn’t figure it was polite to ask who might be doing the grabbing, though I suspected it might not be Lara since I didn’t hear any chattering in the background. “Any chance we could talk tomorrow?”
“First thing.”
“Seven?”
“You some kind of mutant?”
“I’m just so anxious to dig into this story.” That was true; if he wanted to interpret that as some fan frenzy, that was his option.
“Seven isn’t morning, it’s the middle of the night.”
“Direct me, Jake.”
“Ten. You’ll have to bring bagels and coffee.”
I’d dress up like a bagel if it would help. “Ten it is.”
“I should be upright by then. Might even be sober.”
Just as long as he was able to point me to the film. I mean, if a man’s going to be stupid and vain, it’s a shame not to use it to your advantage.
8
“I thought I knew you.”
&
nbsp; It was not exactly the greeting I was expecting, but I was surprised that I even heard it, given that Lara had opened the apartment door wearing only jade green silk tap pants and a matching balcony bra. And Jimmy Choo Marilyn’s, those amazing stiletto-heeled satin sandals with the mammoth green bows that tie around the ankle. The joint in her hand was the finishing touch on a very persuasive portrait of weekend decadence. The overall picture was stunning enough to make me give up carbs for the next three days. Or, at least, the next thirty minutes.
Before she’d opened the door, I’d been feeling pretty sleek in my Diesel black low-rise jeans, pink Juicy Couture hoody, and marvelously strappy Kate Spade santiago sandals. Of course, I’d selected the ensemble as much to make myself feel better about the fact that Kyle had never come back last night as to impress Jake and Lara. Still, confronted by Lara and her splendor with the grass, I suddenly felt Amish.
Taking great care to look her in the eyes, and only in the eyes, I apologized. “Didn’t Jake tell you I was coming?”
Lara blinked so slowly I wasn’t sure her eyes were going to open again. “Jake tells me a lot of things,” she purred dismissively. “The doorman, he said your name and I thought of someone else.”
Someone for whom it would have been appropriate to answer the door in lingerie? “Jake invited me.” I raised the cardboard tray of coffee and bagels up into her line of sight. “I come bearing gifts.”
Lara backed up, beckoning me to enter the apartment. It was aggressively hip, with lots of painfully austere black furniture posed on white carpet, and red accent pieces placed with great care to look as casual as possible. The living area was focused around an entertainment center designed to make mortal men weep, its centerpiece being a fifty-two-inch plasma TV. At the moment, it was tuned to a cartoon.
“Do you know Dora?” Lara asked me, pointing to the animated girl with huge eyes who was bouncing across the screen, accompanied by a purple monkey in red rain boots and a blue bull with hoop earrings and bandana.
“No,” I said carefully. It had the bright colors and rounded line of kids’ animation, but I was fully prepared for Lara to explain the socio-political satire at work in the piece. There had to be some symbolic significance to the bull in the earrings, didn’t there?
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