If I Die Tonight

by Alison Gaylin

  “Wow,” Wind said. “That’s interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “You said Amy Nathanson was upset about her car being stolen and Liam Miller being run down.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Are you aware that you put the car first?”

  She is really, really good. “She does love that car.”

  Kendall Wind raised an eyebrow like Scarlett O’Hara. Pearl had never seen anyone actually do that in real life.

  “She was upset about Liam Miller too,” Pearl tried, but Kendall Wind wasn’t listening. Everyone hears what they want to hear, and she’d already given the detective what she wanted. Pearl took a step away and the mud tugged at her shoes, and she thought, I stepped in it. Literally and figuratively.

  “Aimee En,” Wind mused. “Crying over a car.”

  A gust of air pushed in off the Kill, so cold it made Pearl’s eyes water. She pulled her windbreaker closer, wishing she’d worn her winter jacket and shuddering at the thought of the station, the cracks in the windows, that damaged, trembling roof. “Sometimes,” she said, “it’s easier to worry about things than people.”

  Pearl’s phone buzzed again, three short blips, signifying she’d received a voice mail. She tried to steady her breath. Her father on her voice mail. Her father talking to her for the first time in twenty-two years. “Black Pearl,” Aunt Ruth had called her once, after too many Molsons. “Your father will never speak to you again and can you blame him? Can you blame him, Black Pearl, black-hearted Pearl . . .”

  Pearl felt a heat behind her eyes. She shut them for a few seconds, swallowing hard to smooth out the feeling.

  “Anyway . . .” Pearl said. But Kendall Wind’s hard gaze was no longer on her. The detective watched the Jaguar now as the truck towed it onto the embankment. Pearl watched it too, the lily pads stuck to the chassis, the luxe emerald-green paint job roughened with algae. Pearl thought of Amy Nathanson in her cruiser, the sad squeak in her voice when she’d asked her if she’d ever killed anyone. She remembered what Paul had said, right after she’d told him exactly how she’d killed her mother, and, standing next to this shark-eyed detective, she realized she could easily say the same thing to Amy Nathanson today, whether or not she’d been the one behind the wheel: “Whoa, girl. That’s some shit luck you got there.”

  “She played a gig that night,” Pearl said. “Place called Club Halifax—not more than twenty minutes away from where the accident happened.”

  Wind looked at her. “And?”

  “She said she played late for lots of fans,” Pearl said, thinking out loud. “She did lots of encores.”

  “So . . .”

  “So,” Pearl said. “What if one of those fans wasn’t a fan at all? Teenage boys aren’t her usual demographic. What if he was at the bar for whatever reason and he saw her as an easy mark, followed her out . . .”

  “Followed her in his own car until she was stopped, then ditched his car so that he could come out of nowhere on foot and take hers?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “We’ll look into it.”

  “It’s as possible as Amy Nathanson pushing her most beloved possession into the Kill.”

  Wind turned, looked at her. “Good point.” She actually sounded impressed.

  Pearl felt someone watching her, and when she turned, she saw a kid, half hiding behind a tree, holding up his phone, taking her picture. She glared at him. The phone hand dropped, but she knew there would be more like him—many more, once word got out.

  “They have to document everything,” Wind said.

  Pearl nodded. “I texted a lot as a kid, but the photographing. There’s something so creepy-compulsive about it.”

  “My partner, Detective Wacksman, he blames the Kardashians. He has a theory that they’re working for the CIA, purposely normalizing exhibitionism so nobody minds surveillance.”

  “You guys must have interesting conversations on stakeouts.”

  “Yep,” Wind said. “We took his phone, you know.”

  Pearl looked at her. “Liam Miller’s?”

  She nodded.

  “It was smashed to bits.”

  “Have you ever heard of JTAG?”

  “Vaguely,” Pearl said. The truth. She’d heard it mentioned back in Poughkeepsie—a forensics program of some sort. But beyond that she didn’t have a clue what it was.

  “They have it at the state lab. Once they de-solder the chip, JTAG can show us everything that was on Liam’s phone.” She gave Pearl a meaningful look. “Including video.”

  “You really think he filmed it?”

  Wind jammed her hands into her coat pockets, eyes fixed on the ruined car. “You wouldn’t believe how many teens have filmed their own deaths.”

  “So maybe Liam caught the carjacker on video.”

  “Or whoever ran him over.”

  “Right,” Pearl said, sighing a little. “Whoever ran him over.”

  “By the way, have you ever seen an Aimee En music video?”

  “No . . .”

  “There’s a bunch up on YouTube,” Wind said. “Amy’s quite an actress. She cries in almost all of them.”

  CLUB HALIFAX WAS not, as Pearl had assumed, some hipster paradise in the heart of Hudson. Far from the pricey antique stores and oh-so-chic Manhattan-style restaurants that dominated the downtown area of this onetime working-class town, the place where Amy Nathanson had performed was on the outskirts, on a decidedly off-brand street between a boarded-up bodega and a check-cashing place that wasn’t open today. No leaf peepers here, that was for sure.

  Club Halifax itself was a windowless building that could have doubled as a porno store. Pink neon letters spelled out the name of the club in lewd, disco-era script, but the sign wasn’t on, the overflowing Dumpster alongside the club the only real proof that the place was still in business.

  As Pearl pulled up in front of Club Halifax and parked the cruiser, she tried to imagine a cheering crowd, but the truth was, she couldn’t even imagine people here. The bricks were painted a charred black, and the whole street had a deserted, creepy feel to it, as though it had long ago been conquered by zombies.

  Pearl got out of the car and headed for the front door, determined to find someone to talk to about Amy. She had to keep it fast. No one knew she was here. Ostensibly, she was on a coffee run for the detectives, and the last thing she wanted to do was make Wacksman and Wind wonder what was taking her so long.

  She tried the door. Locked. She pounded on it with the side of her fist and put her ear up against it, but she heard no movement inside. “Hello?” she called out. “Police!”

  No answer. A car whizzed by and Pearl jumped a little. Until that very moment, there had been no traffic on this street at all. Pearl moved past the Dumpster, her footsteps echoing as she curved around to the back of the club, which, interestingly, didn’t look anywhere near as extinct as the front did. There was a parking lot back here, CLUB HALIFAX in shiny red letters on the black brick, two big red doors with a show schedule taped near the place where they met.

  There were even windows here, albeit shuttered ones. She pictured those doors flung open, fans pouring out of them and into the parking lot. The way the back of the club must have looked on the cusp of Saturday morning, Aimee En in all her glory in her vinyl jacket, her bright red lipstick, leaning against one of these doors as she signed autographs after a lengthy set.

  Aimee En, heading into the parking lot, high from performing and from the lateness of the hour and, yes, maybe a whiskey or two. Not drunk, necessarily. But sloppy, cheerfully oblivious as she slips behind the wheel of her gorgeous car, no idea that she’s being watched by a teenage boy, his eyes glued to that sweet, vintage ride . . .

  It’s possible. Pearl walked up to the red doors, pounded on them for good measure, though she knew there was no one here. No cars in the parking lot, for one thing. For another, the schedule taped to the back door said Club Halifax opened at 6:00 PM. She scanned the big l
aminated page, the acts announced in a bold font, the same red as the door, each show boxed in shiny gold. Pearl recognized a few—some newer bands, but a lot of oldies with patronizing reminders printed under their names: “70s icon . . . Known for the hit song . . . Formerly of the legendary group . . .”

  Pearl’s gaze drifted down the list of dates, searching for October 19. She saw the name and reminder right away: “Aimee En, 80s punk/pop goddess.”

  Not a bad thing to be called a goddess. It made Pearl smile, but only for a second. Once she looked more closely at the date, at everything printed within that gold box, Pearl’s smile dissolved. Yes, Amy Nathanson was pitiable. With her weed-choked hoarder’s house, her painted face, and her run of bad luck, she was maybe even a little bit heartbreaking. But she was not to be trusted. Not ever again.

  Eight

  Liam Miller had the same white-blond hair that Amy Nathanson used to have as a little girl. And as she stared at his picture on her laptop screen, published in the online edition of the Havenkill Journal, Amy felt a tug in her chest, an ache. She hadn’t noticed those flaxen curls two nights ago. All she’d seen was a flash of his face, caught in the glare of her own headlights, his cries drowned out by the screech of her tires . . .

  The photo was his senior-class picture: Liam Miller posed against a blue background that matched his eyes and the stripes on his oxford cloth shirt, angled so that he appeared to be gazing at something far away and important.

  “Whatcha looking at?” Vic said just as Amy found the headline again: HAVENKILL HS STUDENT DIES FROM HIT-AND-RUN INJURIES.

  “Nothing, honey,” Amy said, trying to keep it all secret: the held-in tears, the ripping within her heart. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  “Not sleepy anymore.” Vic pushed the button on his bed, bringing him up to sitting.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Ever since the home health aide had left, Amy had been sitting in Vic’s room on the big chair next to his bed with her laptop open, listening to the sound of him sleeping. She did this often. There was something comforting in Vic’s deep, even breaths, the creak of the hospital bed as he shifted, the smell of the chemicals keeping him calm and free of pain.

  She turned to find him watching her with soft eyes and quickly closed her laptop. “Nice dreams?” she said.

  “Meh. How was the gig last night?”

  He had asked her the same question when she’d first gotten home yesterday afternoon, and again this morning, when Jacinta had left. She answered the same way: “It was fine.”

  “Get lucky?”

  A panicky feeling swept over Amy. Don’t think, she told herself. Don’t think. Until the feeling subsided. “I’d never cheat on you, Vic. You know that.”

  “See? I’m the lucky one,” he said. It was a thirty-year refrain, and it made her sad.

  All those times back in the old days, when Vic Iota was the big gun on the L.A. music scene and Amy would look at him—the way his face lit up at the sight of her, the way he’d put out his cigarette when she entered a room. “Secondhand smoke will hurt your beautiful voice,” he would say—and Amy would smile, wishing with her whole heart for Vic to always see her this way: young and pristine and perfect.

  She’d gotten her wish. Vic saw her the same. He saw everything the same. More than once within the past several weeks, Amy had found him rooting through his closet, looking for his “club clothes.” Where’s my leather jacket? I have people to see. Belinda and Henry and Exene. Exene would laugh her ass off if she saw me in one of these paper robes. Is this a joke? God, you’ve got a sick sense of humor. I need my leathers, Amy, where are my leathers?

  Had she wished it on him, the dementia? Amy didn’t like to think so, what with the way Vic struggled with it when he wasn’t feeling his pills, the confusion and fear that would cross his features during those brief moments when he saw things as they really were: the thick dust that coated his massive record collection; the boxes in the dining room, overflowing with thirty- and forty-year-old backstage passes; the concert flyers stacked on his bedroom floor, smelling of mold, yellowed from age and neglect; the weeds climbing up the windows of their onetime party palace. Not to mention Amy herself . . . She had changed so much too.

  But Amy saw now how it could be a blessing, the veil in front of his thoughts. In Vic’s mind, she had been in New York City two nights ago, playing a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden. He’d never know where she’d really been or what she’d done there or what had happened afterward. He would never know about Liam. Or Baby. The one vestige of her old life she’d managed to hang on to all these years, her only big purchase after her first record hit the charts. Amy had never figured herself as the type of person who’d name a car, but Baby was different. Baby would always be different. Behind the wheel of a shining emerald-green 1973 Jaguar XJ6, the world would always be what it once was—beautiful and full of possibility. She could take Vic to the doctor, stretch him out in the backseat, and he’d inhale the leather and close his eyes and smile. Baby could take anybody back in time.

  “My purse and phone got stolen,” Amy said.

  “What?”

  “The police are on it.”

  “Probably a fan.”

  She exhaled. “Probably.”

  “Make sure you cancel your credit cards.”

  “I did. I’m getting a new license too.”

  “Babe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you do something you shouldn’t have last night?”

  Her heart stopped for a second. “What?”

  “Did you do coke?”

  She exhaled. “No, Vic, of course not.”

  “Your eyes look puffy. Like you haven’t slept.” He squinted at her. “Sweetheart, you know what that does to your voice.”

  “Vic,” she said quietly. I haven’t done coke in twenty years. But she couldn’t say it. That would only confuse him. “Vic. I didn’t.”

  There was a knock at the door, an insistent pounding. The doorbell didn’t work. Amy knew that, but she’d never thought about fixing it. Outside of the home health aide, Jacinta, who had a key, there was nobody she and Vic needed to open the door for.

  “Who’s here?” Vic said.

  “I’ll get it.” Amy put a hand on his frail shoulder. “You stay here.”

  Amy moved into the other room and headed for the door. Through the peephole, she saw a balding middle-aged man in a madras shirt. “Can I help you?” she said through the closed door, only to recognize him as soon as he said his name.

  “Hi, Ms. Nathanson. Sergeant Black.”

  She opened the door. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t recognize you without your uniform.”

  He smiled a little. “I could say the same.”

  Amy felt her face heat up. She was wearing a pair of baggy jeans, one of Vic’s Ramones T-shirts, her rainbow hair tied back in a ponytail. She wasn’t wearing makeup, not even lipstick. Her hand flew up to her face.

  “No,” he said. “You look terrific.” Which made it worse. She knew a lie when she heard one. “You okay?” he said. “You feeling any better?”

  Amy backed up enough to let him in. “I’m okay,” she said.

  “I understand you’ve heard the news about Liam Miller.”

  “I . . .”

  “Liam’s parents. They said you’d contacted them.”

  “Yes,” said Amy, just now realizing. “I sent them a message on Facebook. We’re not friends, so I didn’t know whether they would even get it, but I felt like I had to say something. I hope that’s okay.”

  Sergeant Black didn’t respond right away. He was gaping at the great room, at the stacks of boxes and old newspapers and dusty, broken mementos that Jacinta always said were a firetrap but Amy no longer noticed. They were Vic’s things. She was used to them. “We’re still kind of moving in,” she tried.

  He nodded. “Just . . . couple of things. First of all, we think we found your
car in the Kill.”

  Amy stared at him, everything inside her freezing, then starting to crumble. The look on his face. Don’t cry. Imagine how it will look if you cry over a car. She heard herself say, “Do you think it can be fixed?”

  He frowned, and she wished she could suck the words back. “I’m not a mechanic,” he said slowly.

  “No. No, of course.”

  “Anyway, the make, model, and license plates match up, but if you want to come with me and identify it . . . Ms. Nathanson? Are you okay?”

  Amy realized her eyes were closed. “I’m fine,” she said, opening them.

  “It’s been a rough couple of days,” he said. But there was something in his eyes now. A hardness. I shouldn’t have asked about the car like that. Now he’s suspicious. Anybody would be suspicious. “Ms. Nathanson?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ll also need you to come by the station.”

  Her stomach dropped. “Why?”

  “State police is handling the case. Detectives have a few questions for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Just a few questions. No big deal.”

  Amy smoothed a lock of hair behind an ear. She gave him the Aimee En pout, which was nowhere near as effective without red lipstick, she knew. His eyes stayed focused on her. “Is that necessary?” she said.

  “No big deal,” he said again. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “You should be looking for that boy. The one who pushed me to the ground and—”

  “This will help the state police to find him.” He gave her a weak smile. “Officer Maze will be there. I know you like her.”

  “Babe?” shouted Vic from the bedroom, his voice tremulous. “Are you still there? You’re still here, right?”

  “I’m here!” Amy called out. “Don’t worry! Stay where you are!” But she heard movement anyway, the light thud of his feet on the wood floor, his shuffling footsteps. No . . .

  Sergeant Black’s eyes widened. Amy turned to Vic and saw him not through her own eyes but through his. “This is Vic Iota,” she said, calm as she could, gesturing at the frail ghost in the hospital robe, wispy gray hair wild around his face, the jutting bones, the eyes full of terror, the start of tears. “My manager.”