“Well, guess I won’t be the happy little center of that Glamazon triangle tonight,” Jess said wistfully. “Raves, for the record, little sister, are so 1994. This place is a riff off of guerrilla gigs.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s not exactly easy getting a gig at a top bar in New York, so people go guerrilla, taking over venues that are already staged for another event—usually midtown corporate stuff or high-end Upper East Side fund-raiser shit. Anyway, you sneak yourself in. Leak word online to potential crashers who want to witness the scene. Then you go for it and hope for some attention. Gaslight sort of did the reverse a couple years ago, leaking the rumor that this was a place to be crashed for gigs. Show up and play, draw a crowd, see what happens.”
“How can a performance be guerrilla if it’s basically invited?”
“Well, it’s not. Gaslight’s really just an open mic bar with an edgier rep. You know something, El, this proves you haven’t been coming out enough since you met that Captain Justice of yours. Dog Park’s been playing here every couple of weeks for a few months now.”
“And this guy?” She studied the light-skinned DJ spinning records from the elevated stage.
“We hate him.”
“I mean, does he play here a lot?”
“Must. I think we’ve seen him here, like, three times already. This music’s shit, right?”
She shrugged. “Interesting enough, I guess. A little weird. I can’t even tell what I’m listening to.”
“That’s because he calls it art. He walks around the city with a computer recording street noises, then mixes it into his whole techno world music blend. It’s crap.”
Ellie took a look around the half-filled bar. “Decent enough turnout for crap.”
Jess made a sour face. “These people aren’t all here for him. Maybe those preppy douchebags over there. You only get a half hour at Gaslight unless the crowd gets so worked up that whoever’s supposed to take your spot decides it’s not such a great idea.”
“OK, that’s a little guerrilla.”
“Well, trust me, no one’s going to make a scene trying to buy more time for this Beck wannabe. Unless he’s come up with some new aural assault to close out with, I’m pretty sure this is his last song.”
They waited while Keith mixed and scratched his way to a crescendo, then abruptly halted the music. The crowd clapped politely, and the DJ flashed a peace sign before starting to pack his turntables, laptop, and other gear into a trunk.
Ellie nudged Jess, pushing him toward the stage.
“Oh, my God. Can you at least put me on the department payroll for this?”
She nudged him harder, and he led the way.
The DJ immediately recognized Jess and greeted him with a nervous smile. “Hey, man.” He avoided eye contact by continuing to focus on the packing of his equipment. “I didn’t realize you guys were playing tonight.”
“We’re not. I’m just hanging.”
“Hi,” Ellie said, offering a friendly handshake and an enthusiastic smile. “I’m Jess’s sister. Ellie Hatcher.”
“Keith Guzman.” Keith’s gaze shifted between her and her brother. “Sister, huh? Can’t say I can see the resemblance.”
This wasn’t the first time this observation had been made. Long, lanky Jess with his straight dark hair and angular face, the petite but curvy little sister with blond waves and full lips. And the differences went beyond the physical. Jess was flaky like their mom, Ellie stubborn and determined like their father. Jess, light as bubbles. Ellie, rock solid. Jess, who didn’t see the purpose of coming here. Ellie, who now had the elusive Keith’s last name.
“So, great music. Jess said you work sounds from the street into your mixes?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of my thing. An urban update on musique concrète.”
“What is musique coquette?”
“No, concrète. Like concrete. Literally translated, it’s concrete music. The original idea was that the components of music didn’t have to be singing or instruments. It started in Paris in the forties. The Beatles used it a little, but that was back when they had to use tapes. Now that everything’s digitized? It’s bananas, man. And I specifically use sounds from the streets of New York City. In theory I’m saying something important about the music of everyday life, like what Marcel Duchamp did for found art in the media of the tangible. It’s like found music.”
Ellie nodded along with interest. “Yeah, I get it.”
“Or,” Keith said with a laugh, “maybe it’s just a good jam.”
“And you play your mixes directly from your computer?” Ellie eyed the Apple laptop that still rested on the table between them and Keith.
“Yeah. The recordings are digitized so I can pretty much do whatever I want with them.”
“You can’t do all of that with just this one little MacBook though, can you? I assume you have a bunch of stuff at home, too.”
“Nope, just this,” he said, tapping the thin notebook.
“Really, that’s all you’ve got? Just that one laptop?”
“Yep. Maybe when I hit it big, you know.”
“So,” Jess interrupted, “you got a girlfriend these days or what?”
Ellie jerked toward Jess with a glare. Guzman apparently mistook her shocked expression. “Wow. Um, I’ve never seen a brother try to hook his sister up. Uh, I don’t know. Maybe you and I can—”
“No, dude, maybe you can stop looking at my sister before you find yourself in a cell.”
So much for her plan of flirting her way onto Guzman’s computer. She removed her shield from her purse and flipped it open for a quick view.
“I need to talk to you about Megan Gunther.”
“Yo, bitch. This is some serious bullshit.”
“All right, Li’l Keith, you can drop the street act.” They stood on the relatively quiet sidewalk outside the club. Guzman had initially tried to resist, but then Ellie pretended to reach for one of the silver hoops in his lip, and he made his way out the door with her. Now polite and charming Keith Guzman had transformed into DJ Anorexotica, and Ellie could see why Jess had called him an annoying poseur. “When was the last time you had contact with Megan Gunther?”
“I’ve moved on past her. Couldn’t you tell when I was getting ready to make a play on you?”
“Sometimes the best way to move on is to hurt someone. Bad.”
“Megan’s hurt?”
Ellie was starting to wonder whether this guy had a serious case of multiple personality. The An-Ex ’tude had withdrawn, replaced by a softness to his eyes and concern in his voice that seemed genuine.
“Someone posted some pretty heinous stuff about her online.”
A wave of relief washed over his face. “But she’s okay?”
“You get information when I get information. What do you know about a Web site called Campus Juice?”
“It’s a gossip site.”
“So you know about it.”
“Sure. People post evil shit about each other on there. Pretty funny sometimes.”
“You mean college-student-type people. You’re not a college student.”
“Boy, you have been talking to Megan, haven’t you? She had to go talk about that shit to you? Fine, I don’t go to college. I didn’t take the three-thousand-dollar prep course for my SATs like Megan and her friends and her snotty-ass roommate. I know a hell of a lot more about life than they do. I can tell you that.”
Ellie held up her palms. “All I’m asking you about is a Web site, Keith. You’re the one who got all defensive about this college thing.”
He pressed his lips together and looked down at the sidewalk. “Let’s just say it was an issue between me and her. So, whatever. This Web site. Yeah, I know about it, even though I don’t go to college.”
“Have you posted on it before?”
“Yeah. About six months ago.”
Ellie was wondering if this was going to be easier than she
thought. “You have?”
“Sure. That’s my target demographic. I did a guerrilla gig last year in Tribeca at a test screening of some artsy-fart indie film about homeless kids on the needle. I leaked the buzz on message boards aimed at college students. Pretty sure I covered NYU, Fordham, and Columbia on Campus Juice.”
“Have you posted on the site since then?”
He paused. “Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. Why are you asking me this shit?”
“Have you been on the Web site at all since then?”
“Nope. The event was a bust anyway. I got about thirty people there to see me take over the theater, but only about twenty people showed up for the movie. And no press. Sort of defeats the purpose of going guerrilla. Again, why are you asking me this shit?”
“Where were you this morning between eight and nine o’clock?” She had an approximate time of death from the ME.
“At home.”
“Anyone with you?”
“My mom was home.”
“You live with your mom?”
“Surprised Megan didn’t tell you that, too. She didn’t believe me that I could afford to pay rent. So instead she gets that Heather bitch to move in. Said it would be nice to have a girlfriend around. And what did it get her? Nothing. Heather’s not her friend. She goes out with some mystery boyfriend she didn’t even tell Megan about. She even tried to come on to me one night, telling me all about how she started having sex real young and all this other crazy shit. What kind of friend is that?”
“Keith, enough about the roommate and what could’ve been if you lived with Megan. If I take your laptop in, are my analysts going to back up what you say about not going to that Web site in the last six months?”
“You’re not taking anything anywhere. That laptop’s my fucking livelihood. That’s my art. Let me talk to Megan and sort this shit out. She knows I wouldn’t say a bad word about her to anyone.”
He pulled out his phone and hit the button for his contact list. Megan had deleted all evidence of their relationship from her electronic world, but apparently Keith had not. Ellie grabbed the phone from Guzman’s hand and hit the end button. He jerked his hand away.
“First you talk shit about taking my computer. Now you’re messing with my phone. You better step back.”
“Or what, Keith?”
He stared at her.
“Or what? You gonna stab me? Cut me up?”
“Bitch, you’re crazy,” he muttered. “Just call Megan, a’ight?”
“Megan’s dead.”
She watched as a look of confusion on his face turned to realization. He began shaking his head. “No, no. No. No.” He spoke that same word over and over again until he bent forward and began to cry.
The front door of the bar swung open, nearly smacking Guzman. He stepped out of the way and tried to regain his composure. Ellie recognized the woman who walked out of Gaslight as one of the attractive group of three from inside. Just behind her came Jess, hands in pockets, guilty smile on his face.
Jess was not the only one leaving with more than he’d hoped for. She headed back into the bar for Guzman’s laptop.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
6:30 P.M.
Katie Battle made certain to keep her knees together beneath the short hemline of her dress as she shifted her weight from the cab. A uniformed bellman opened one side of a set of double red doors for her.
“Welcome to the Royalton, ma’am.”
She bypassed the hotel lobby’s suede sofas, leather-covered walls, and steel tables and headed directly for the wood-paneled Bar 44.
It was six thirty, a bit early for New York City happy-hour standards, but the space had already started to fill. She’d learned that this time of day was popular for married men who could fit in an after-work diversion and still make it home in time to claim a late night at the office.
Taking the last remaining seat at the bar, she ordered a Manhattan from a light-haired bartender, who gave her a knowing look. “You want some bar mix to snack on, or will this be a quick visit?”
The comment was obviously a dig. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was all in her imagination.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
The bartender nodded politely and made his way to the other end of the counter, where a barrel-chested man tapped a credit card on the sleek brass bar top.
She had taken two ladylike sips of her cherry red cocktail when the man approached.
“Are you Miranda?”
She gave him her warmest and most welcoming smile. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Stuart,” he said. “Uh, Stuart—”
“That’s okay,” she said, with a reassuring nod. “You can be anyone you want tonight.”
She gave Stuart a quick but subtle once-over. He was probably just past fifty, but he was still in decent shape. A full head of dark hair, but she suspected the assistance of a toupee. Titanium wedding band. Decent suit and tie. A little shy. Clean.
Pretty routine.
Stuart eyed the bartender nervously. “Um, the bar’s a little tight. You want to move over—” He gestured toward an empty brown leather sofa toward the front of the bar, not far from the entrance to the hotel lobby. She led the way while Stuart ordered himself a Maker’s Mark neat and dropped cash on the counter for the two drinks.
Once he was seated next to her on the couch, Miranda noticed his left thumb fiddling with his wedding band.
“Are you going to be okay?” She placed her hand gently on him, only at his knee, no higher. The last thing she needed was this guy to succumb to a sudden attack of piousness.
Stuart held his highball glass with both hands and stared at the swirling brown liquid.
“Sorry. Last night was my twentieth anniversary.”
She reminded herself she was Miranda and forced herself to keep her hand planted exactly where it was. As if she were comfortable.
“Charlotte was in an accident three years ago. Spinal damage.” He wiped at his eyes. “God, I’m sorry. It’s, well, this isn’t the first time or anything. And I suspect she even sort of knows. But, you know, last night—”
“Sure,” she said, giving his knee a reaffirming squeeze. “Maybe another night,” she offered, confident that he would decline the offer of a rain check, just like the reluctant buyers who argued with her if she suggested that an apartment might still be available down the road.
He shook his head and downed a sip of his bourbon. “No, I’m good. I’ll be fine once we’re upstairs.” He gave her a sad smile. “Is that okay? If we go upstairs?”
“No problem,” she said, rising from her place on the sofa. “And, remember, tonight you’re anyone you want. You can be Derek Jeter as far as I’m concerned.”
He laughed.
“Go ahead. Lie to me.”
He looked at her reluctantly but rose from the couch to face her.
“Really,” she repeated softly, almost in a whisper, “go ahead. Lie to me.”
He placed his hand on her elbow. “I’m Mike. I’m in town for a convention.”
“Yeah?”
“And I’m single.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Mike. And I’ll be anyone you want in return.”
“I do have a favor to ask.” He continued to hold her elbow. “Is it possible for you to book the room in your name?”
“I don’t usually—”
“It’s my…well, my wife,” he said, looking down at his feet. “It’s one thing to do this to her under the circumstances. It’s another to flaunt it. A charge on the credit card would—”
“Sure, I understand. It’s just I carry a balance, and so with interest—”
“I’ll make up for it.”
He’d obviously made this arrangement before, as had she. It was a common practice, a way for girls to get some extra cash to themselves on the side. She’d never been ratted on yet.
“All right. Mike.”
“Mike’s gonna go outside
for a smoke. I’ll meet you by the elevators?”
She nodded and watched him walk outside.
At the registration desk, she asked the clerk for a single room. While the clerk ran her credit card through the system, Miranda dug her cell phone from her purse, pulled up a number in her list of contacts, and hit the dial key.
“It’s Miranda. I just wanted you to know I already sent flowers to Mom, so you don’t need to worry about it.”
The substance of what she said was irrelevant. What mattered was her use of the word flowers. Stuart passed the no-freaks-allowed test, and Miranda was fine.
The word tight was another story. One utterance of the word tight and help would be on its way. Or at least that’s how it had been explained to her.
She understood the need for a check-in system, but she’d been doing this now for six months and still didn’t see why they had to be so James Bond about it. She supposed it played into the myth that what she was doing was acting. Role-playing. Fantasy. A “hobby,” as some of the so-called providers dubbed it. Something other than what it obviously was.
Stuart (or Mike) was already walking toward her when she approached the elevator, the fading smell of cigarette smoke still on him. She pressed the up button. They waited alone.
“They explained to you I only do what’s safe?” she asked. Even some of the tamest men would pressure her to avoid condoms.
He nodded, but his embarrassment about the subject showed in his flushed cheeks. “That’s…well, of course, that’s my preference. I’m…I’m definitely safe.”
When the elevator doors opened, Miranda stepped inside and Stuart followed. Only minutes later, the fantasy had fallen away, and Miranda was back to being Katie Battle.
And that night, Katie was definitely not safe.
PART III
IT WAS ALL
ABOUT MAY 27.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
8:45 P.M.
With more than a decade passed since the move from Wichita to New York, Ellie was still struck by random reminders of how much her life had changed as a result of that geographic switch. She had grown up in a place where arguments about pizza revolved around the choice between Pizza Hut and Domino’s. Now a craving for pizza could spark a thirty-minute debate about the relative virtues of the crispy, charred crusts of John’s in the West Village compared to the white pies at Lombardi’s. And then there were those who swore that real New York pizza could only be found in Brooklyn.
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