Garvey flipped through her papers again, studied one sheet that caught her interest, and pulled out a highlighter, which she used on a few of the lines, then slid it toward Solomon. He caught it with a whoosh before it skidded off the table and he zoned in.
“Says here, Tessa went to Gwen earlier this week. Complained about a gun in the house. Apparently, you two had quite the fight about it.”
James scoffed. “Please. I called Gwen first thing Friday morning. Check the phone records. I wanted to know if either of them had seen a strange person or car on the street, or if they’d seen Tessa. They both said no. Maybe you should look into reasons they’d be lying?” He had to get Solomon off the illegal gun questioning, even if it proved futile. “I mean, if Gwen told me she hadn’t seen her, then why would she tell you something different? Who’s lying here, Detective?”
Solomon looked up from his pages of statements and peered directly at James. “Well, that’s what I’m here for, Montgomery. I’ll decide who’s telling the truth. So,” he continued with flourish, pointed at the camera, and then at James. “I’m asking you again. Do you own a firearm?”
James flashed back to three weeks ago. Talking with a client, Carl Rittenberg, after he’d secured a loan for his jewelry business. The guy was a straight shooter and James liked him. Talk of the loan turned into talk of the business turned into talk of how to protect the business. New Jersey had archaic gun rules, and Carl had recently applied for a carry permit. Illegal in the state for the most part, but he had extenuating circumstances: He dealt in diamonds. At any time, he could be coming from or going to a wholesale place. At any time, he could be carrying a half a million dollars in cash or a half a million dollars in diamonds. Anyone who scoped him out knew that. Anyone with less than good intentions knew where’d he’d be, and where he was vulnerable.
Carl didn’t want to wait three months for a legal permit. He’d mentioned to James where he was able to secure a pistol in the meantime. The early bird gets the worm, but the second rat gets the cheese. Carl refused to have a broken back in a metal contraption.
“I don’t own a firearm,” James repeated.
Whoever made up the term silence is deafening must’ve had a time machine and must’ve come to a front-row seat in this room. James didn’t want to be cliché and say that you could hear a pin drop, but it would’ve sounded like a crack of thunder at that point.
“Did you have blood on your shirt Thursday night?”
Fuck. “Who told you that?”
Solomon slammed his hand on the table again. “I said I’ll be the one asking questions.”
“I had a nosebleed.”
He looked at Garvey and laughed. “A nosebleed. Do you believe this guy?” His attention turned back to James. “We’re going to need that shirt.”
“Is Judge Nguyen back from vacation?” Garvey cut in and asked Solomon. “We could probably have that warrant signed imminently.”
“It’s at the dry cleaner’s,” James said. A flash-forward of the jurors’ disapproving faces danced in his head.
“Well, wasn’t that lightning speed? Your wife is missing but you remembered to run your laundry off to the dry cleaner’s?” Solomon asked.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree. You should be looking for my wife. Are we done here?” James asked. “I really need to spend time with Candy. She’s confused.” Garvey gave him a look, one that said Oh, the stripper girlfriend you’re hiding? “Our dog,” he clarified.
Yes, Candy needed him. But he had to get rid of that gun. Completely and totally rid of it. Not just out of the house.
Solomon and Garvey exchanged a glance, and Solomon slapped both hands on the table. “I suppose you haven’t heard the last from us, Montgomery. Don’t go too far.”
James stood and waited for both detectives to do the same before he exited the room. They followed closely behind, right on his heels as the saying goes. He could almost feel Garvey’s hot breath on his neck, and their accusatory eyeballs scorched the back of his head.
James had to get home. The gun was out of the house, for sure, but he had to make sure the detectives wouldn’t look there for it. Because of course that would be the next place to search.
13
Tessa
My day was productive. I did everything I had to do, which included rising at six-thirty A.M. even though I barely got any sleep. I wanted to walk over to the pharmacy a couple of blocks away and get my prepaid cards. I got two five-hundred-dollar ones—one for online stuff, and the other for the rest, including Ellen at the front desk. I knew she was on the eleven P.M. to seven A.M. shift, and I didn’t want her to get in trouble for not having me checked in properly. She did me a solid last night. I’ll have to pay cash once I check out, since the card won’t cover the large hotel expense. And on Monday, I’ll have to start looking for a job.
Damon texts me to “hang out” tonight, and I tell him yes, since the bruise is getting easier to cover. The yellow has faded to a point that I can tell him it’s a no-sleep bag of under-eye water that refuses to budge, and he’ll believe it. The swelling on the lump is still there, unfortunately, and I spend most of the day lazing around in the hotel room, running back and forth to the ice machine to try to keep it from getting any larger, even though that ship has sailed. When housekeeping knocks, I tell them I don’t need a made-up bed or turndown service but request more clean towels and turn in my used ones.
Today, there is a bit more of a chill in the air than the last few days, which is finally normal for this time of year. I even open a window in my hotel room before I shower to get some of the stuffiness out. The hotel is set back off the main highway, so there are some trees, which are nicely lit up for incoming guests. The view is bland, but if I crane my neck to the left, I can see lights that line the main part of town, where people gather for romantic dinners and to clink martini glasses filled with rainbow-colored liquids.
Better than the red flashing “vacancy” signs I’m used to. I think every foster sibling, and even my half siblings, were probably used to the same things.
I often think about Sara and Tara, and what became of them after they took off. We lost touch in my teens, and they weren’t always in the same foster homes as me. They’ve got to be in their midthirties by now. I wonder if they’re still together. If they ran off and met brothers or friends, if they ended up getting GEDs or went to college and got stable jobs and have summer homes on the beach on the same block. They could be doctors or lawyers, mothers or trophy wives.
Doubtful.
I think Sara was knocked up. Tara is probably dead of an overdose—Lord knows she ran out of the last Hell House with a needle practically sticking out of her arm.
The things we had to do to cope.
Kenny is probably hiding from all his baby mommas. Working construction or dealing drugs or taking bets. Something off the books. It’s not like the government will be able to garnish his wages if he gets paid in fistfuls of cash. He was never one for stability. I was closest to him at the time; we’re only a year apart. Less, even. Irish twins, they used to call us. Aside from the actual twins, obviously, we were the only ones with the same mother and father. The twins had a different dad than us. So did Christopher, who was half Black. He had a hard time growing up as a mixed kid, who looked more African American than white, while living in a white trash world.
Christopher may or may not be out of prison. Maybe he did his time, learned his life lessons, and now works for youth groups, telling his story about growing up in the system and tsk-tsking them about their crimes and regaling them with tales of his own mistakes. Maybe he met a nice counselor who understood him and wanted to save him. Maybe he or she did.
Or maybe he was shanked while innocently taking a shower.
It’s nice to dream about reuniting. Gatherings under the Christmas tree. Exchanging Hallmark cards on birthdays.
And I’d bet every last seven thousand four hundred seventy-seven dollars I have left in my bag
that none of them have given one last thought about what the fuck happened to me.
Okay. Maybe Kenny. Maybe.
For now, I put the finishing touches on my makeup. I press two fingers onto the lump on my head. The swelling has gone down, but it’s still a lump.
All of the Assholes brandished my bruises like a badge of honor. Yeah, I hit my old lady when she’s runnin’ her mouth. She’ll learn for next time. Then they’d clink their beer mugs and take their whisky shots with their buddies. One Asshole, who lived in an apartment over a bar with two other guys, used to shove me around in front of them. Laugh about it. Let them order me around too. Get me another beer, Tessa or I want chicken wings, bitch or Hide this coke and keep yer fuckin’ mouth shut. They all lived paycheck to paycheck, only splurging on high-end rims for their piece of shit pickup trucks or games for their Xbox.
I thought if I did what they said, the assholes would have no reason to hit me.
Unless the beer wasn’t cold. I certainly paid the price for that when their refrigerator broke. Ever since the cast came off, I’ve been freezing mugs.
I move my hair to the right to make sure the lump is covered and swipe on a coat of sparkly pink lip gloss, the shiny kind that makes my hair stick to my lips if there’s a gust of wind. My cheeks are flushed pink without any help from a bronzer. I’ll have a real friend in town already, and hopefully Damon can put in a good word to be a waitress or something.
My phone beeps with a text message that my Uber driver is two minutes away, so I close my hotel room door behind me and head to the elevator. Inside, I check my face again in a compact mirror to see how it fares against harsh fluorescent lights. The lights in the bathroom in my hotel room are soft and perfect for putting on makeup, but that doesn’t always translate to the real world. But I’m good. No caking.
I see Jerry and note the plate on his silver Honda Accord, and it all checks out. He has Damon’s apartment address plugged into the app, and off we go.
It’s only a ten-minute ride, thankfully in the opposite direction of yesterday’s shithole motel situation. We’re only on a highway for five minutes and I watch my new home pass me by. The supermarkets, The Walmart. The Home Goods, my favorite. Then we pass a stretch of land that has the banks, the professional buildings, and the doctors’ offices. Jerry turns off the highway and we roll down a dark, tree-lined street. When it opens up, there is a hospital, a few strip malls, and then an apartment center, which the Uber app tells him to turn into.
There are four buildings in the complex, and I know this because we pass three of them and Damon’s is the last one. They don’t look super fancy, all standing five stories. From the dark, they look like white stucco on the outside. There’s a keypad by the front of the main door to each building, so I’ll have to be buzzed in.
I thank Jerry and jump out of the Uber, being careful not to slam his door. Once, about three months ago, Asshole and I were getting out of an Uber that took us home after what I thought was a fun night of dinner and drinks with our neighbors. The driver thought I slammed the door too hard, and it dinged Asshole’s perfect five-star rating.
I learned the hard way never to do that again.
At the keypad, I search for Damon Moretti and hit the button. There is a buzzing sound that indicates it’s okay for me to open the front door. He didn’t even confirm it was me through the call box. Once inside, I wait at the elevator and when it opens, an attractive couple walks out. They aren’t holding hands, and both wear their frustration with each other on their faces like a pressure cooker about to blow. I give them a quick smile, which they don’t return, and get in the elevator.
When I get to the fourth floor, there is a ding from the speaker above me and I follow the sign to the left to go to apartment 4D. The carpets in the hallway are brown and old, like something from the living room of Foster Family Number Whatever, because they hadn’t updated the house since it was built in 1960. Fluorescent lights hang overhead, which I was afraid of, and outside each door there is a little brass light. The one in front of 4B is broken and casts a dark shadow, making it look like the entryway to Hell House. I knock on the door to 4D.
Footsteps approach, and Damon opens the door, shirtless and in jeans. “Hey. I need another minute to finish getting ready,” he says, then walks away without properly inviting me in.
O-kay then. Opening the door shirtless? Is this supposed to be some twisted date? Because I thought we were just going to be buddies.
The door is still open, so I invite myself in and close it behind me. I place my purse on the granite counter. The counters look new, but the appliances look old. White. Rusted in the corners. Electric stovetop, not gas. The tile on the floor is fake linoleum. The place is nicer than a lot of the places I’ve lived in. A quick scan shows a living room with a small eating area next to a single door with a knob, which I assume goes out to a small balcony, but the four small windows on the door are covered with a solid blue curtain so I can’t be sure. To my left, there’s a hallway that I believe leads to the bathroom and two bedrooms. The carpets run throughout the whole place, except for the kitchen, and look like they’re in need of a decent shampoo. There are two candles burning, one on the counter and another on the cocktail table in front of the couch. It smells like Christmas. At least the Christmas I got to see in school, when I went.
Most of my Christmases smelled of rail gin, stale beer, and baked beans.
When Damon reappears, he’s fully dressed, his dark hair perfectly full and loose, not slicked back as he had it in the bar. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans, and a belt with silver studs to match his boots. His tattoo on his arm shows, and it’s a picture of a heart with a dagger through it, blood dripping down the tip.
“Nice place,” I say. “How long have you lived here?”
He shrugs. “Couple of years. You want a beer?”
“Sure,” I say. “Is your roommate here?”
“Nope. He usually just stays at his old lady’s place.”
I sting at the term old lady. It’s so white trashy. Maybe I was wrong about Damon. Wouldn’t be the first time the radar broke.
Damon takes two beers out of the refrigerator and opens them and hands me one. I immediately get anxious remembering Asshole’s anger over his frosted mugs, but Damon just sips it from the bottle, so I do the same.
“What’s our plan for tonight?” I ask.
After swallowing his sip, he licks his lips. “What do you like? Dinner and a movie? Is that a proper date?”
So, it’s a date? Do I want that? Is he like the others? “I can eat,” I say.
“Cool,” he says, and places his full beer on the counter. “Let’s go.”
He’s nothing like the Damon I met in the bar, and I’m trying to figure out if that’s good or bad. Broken radar and all.
We head out and walk to his car, a blue Mustang. He hits his keychain and there’s a beep and two flashing yellow taillights, so I know it’s open. He doesn’t open the door for me, just heads to the driver’s side and gets in. Which is fine—I’m not used to being treated with chivalry anyway.
Yet, it always crosses my mind when it doesn’t happen. For some reason I still think I live in a rom-com, with no past to dictate why I would. Goals.
There is a tapas place right across the way from the theater, so we get a quick bite there. Out in the wild, he’s more relaxed than he was in his apartment. Damon talks mostly about himself. Thirty-five. Divorced, which is good to know. Ex-spouses can be such a pain in the ass, as I’ve come to discover. He says his regular day job is cable and Wi-Fi installation, and usually works from seven A.M. to three P.M. Monday through Friday, and only bartends on Friday nights. For quick cash, according to him.
He doesn’t ask me much about myself, which is honestly welcoming. The only thing he asks me is where I’m from, and I lie to him. It’s not like he’s going to check.
After the movie, he asks me back for a nightcap. Experience says this will end badly fo
r me. However, he never got handsy on me once all night—didn’t even try, so I assume we’re still doing the getting-to-know-you thing. I’m sure he won’t flip into some animal.
It’s a quick ride back to his place, and when he opens the front door, there’s a girl in the kitchen. Tall, medium build, mousy brown straight hair. She startles me, as I didn’t expect to see a woman in his place, but she enrages Damon.
“What are you doing here?” he says immediately. “He’s not here, I thought he was at your house. Go home. God, I fucking hate that he gave you a key.” He looks at me. “This is my roommate’s girlfriend.”
Jesus. Calm down, buddy. He certainly acts differently in front of strangers. Pretends to be a good guy? Should I get out of here?
He looks back at her. “Can you leave? I have company.”
“Relax, Damon. I know he’s not here. I was just leaving him a note,” she says, points to a pad on the counter, and heads to the door. She stops and looks at me. “Girl to girl, I have to warn you against this one. He’s an asshole.”
Asshole. Man, I love me an Asshole with a capital A, huh?
“Get out!” Damon shouts and slams the door behind her. “We never got along. Don’t listen to her.”
He drops his keys on the table and then heads to the TV and turns on the cable box until it gets to a slow music station. Then he presses the remote-control button until the volume can surely be heard by the neighbors. His earlier rage turns me on a little, because I’m wired that way. He spins me around and kisses me. Hard. Rough. Without remorse, and without asking, which is also how I’m used to it.
He removes his shirt from the back of the neck and his gaze pierces mine and we fall onto the couch, him on top of me. He goes for my belt. At this point the couch pillows are under my back and making me arch, which I don’t want to do—it’s practically an invitation.
“Hey,” I say and push back a little. “Let’s take this slow.”
Ignoring me, he goes for my belt again, and my stomach turns inside itself. Goosebumps develop on my skin, not the good kind, when he aggressively kisses my neck.
Finding Tessa Page 9
