What, really, had made that grant finally happen? Liddy had often wondered about that. Was it Carl’s family pull with Big Pharma, or better times, or the fact that Carl’s idea for their research was slightly better? Paul said it was the latter two, which probably made sense although he’d been toiling alone on something similar; would no doubt have come up with the same damned thing if the wheels hadn’t started turning again so fast.
Liddy leaned on the door jamb, surveying the living room, realizing that she was saying good-bye to a big chunk of her life. It was almost funny how they’d jam-packed so much stuff in here, knowing that they’d move someday and that this place was just a temporary warehouse. They’d prowled antique and curio shops. Found a wonderful old Spanish armoire which they’d cleared of dust and cobwebs and made beautiful again. Ditto an old walnut desk, a big Spanish terra cotta jar, and a fat Buddha that was just a copy and did nothing but take up space. “Floor crowders,” Paul called them, but Liddy had loved them; still did.
She felt herself give way to a smile, realizing that the things jamming this old place would almost be lost in the loft; have more than enough room to spread out in and be beautiful. She toyed with the idea of maybe a small spotlight beaming on the Buddha, maybe even asking the construction guys to build a niche for him, off to the right of the fireplace and the television…
Keys scraped at the door and there was Paul, filling the room with his energy and a fierce hug and lusty kiss. He changed his shirt and, despite a soft rain starting to fall, out they went to their favorite little French restaurant on Amsterdam and 86th. From their table by the window, he looked wistfully out at the street.
“Last time we’ll be here,” he said smiling, raising his Beaujolais to Liddy’s glass.
“Maybe we’ll come back,” she shrugged, but Paul didn’t think so.
“You kidding? It’s a whole different world in Soho. A really new beginning.”
Between wine and poulet rôti they checked their phones to track delivery of new cookware and a new, king-sized bed they’d ordered. The wine warmed as Liddy described mundane things like the construction company who was going to come work extra fast (“maybe tomorrow”) because Beth sent them so much business; ditto the fabric firm Beth sent tons of business who were going to re-do fast the couch and ottoman and also help Liddy hang drapes and window shades. “A blessing,” she said. “I’d go crazy if I had to take that time away from painting.”
“Money sure talks,” Paul said, dumping salt onto his pommes frites.
Under the mundane, though, Liddy’s trip to the police station troubled her – rather, what really bothered was feeling that she shouldn’t or couldn’t tell Paul. Why not? her mind rebelled. I’ll just say I thought I saw and sketched that missing coed, and told the police where. Shouldn’t married people be able to share confidences? Not feel afraid to say whatever especially if it upsets them?
She found herself staring at the little red squares in the red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Her fingertips touched them; moved across a jagged line of them. Forget the police visit.
It bothered her worse after their second glass of wine, over a dessert of shared tarte aux pommes and vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries sprinkled on top. She stopped eating for moments; stared at the red strawberries. Say nothing about the police.
It bothered her still worse as they nursed two brandies - an extra celebration, a saying good-bye to the old neighborhood. Liddy caught herself staring at a woman at a near table wearing a red sweater. It was the sweater she stared at – and then thought, why am I staring at red things?
“You know her?” Paul asked.
“No. Just admiring her sweater.”
She slugged her brandy too fast, let it take effect, and out it came.
She told Paul, casually, as if it were nothing: she was just the thousandth person reporting a possible sighting of that missing girl, a good citizen doing her civic duty.
Paul looked at her as if he hadn’t heard right. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“God, stay away from the police.”
“Why? If I or anybody can help-”
“Just don’t get involved, any lawyer will tell you that. Don’t even give them the time of day, they’ll find noon at three o’clock.” He frowned uneasily as something hit. “Had you been drinking before you went there?”
Furious, the question made her, but she hid it and shrugged. “I just stopped at Pepe’s.”
“Where?”
“A bar on Prince. I had some wine.”
“How much wine? Jesus, Lids, I thought you were better handling-”
“Two glasses. Nothing, for God’s sake.”
“Please don’t tell me that problem’s coming back.”
“It was never a problem. I had two glasses and stopped fine. The detective said they had a hundred new sightings. She was nice.”
“Detective,” Paul muttered, rolling his eyes away as if she’d just falsely announced the place was on fire. With his hand holding his brandy he signaled the waiter, sloshing the brandy.
Liddy clamped her jaw; looked out. Say no more, she warned herself. When they fought, they really fought.
The rain outside was heavier, fogging up the glass. There was no scary face on it, though. She looked, and then looked harder.
Nothing. But she still felt rotten.
16
The man in the shadows…
He was standing under a tree, chin lowered with darkened eyes clearly watching. Looked as if he’d just stood from that bench behind him, watching Sasha and Becca.
Waiting for Becca to leave?
Looked it.
Kerri went back to studying the selfie – enlarged - of Becca and Sasha taken three and a half months ago. “Early May,” Becca said. “When Sasha was still happy.”
ShadowFace’s features were too lost in the shadows, dammit.
After I told Sasha ‘bye and walked away something made me look back. He’d approached her, they seemed to be arguing, I’m not sure. There was something emotional going on.
Becca thought Sasha had been in love from roughly March through May. Then was depressed by May thirtieth, the last time Becca saw her. And Becca was the second person (!) to think there might have been a romance gone bad.
Kerri went back to her computer and zoomed through files, to the interview done last June by a different detective. She found it: Grace now back in Ohio had suspected a lover and asked Sasha if he was married. “Taken,” was the coy answer. That interview had just gotten filed away, lost in the cracks because Grace had been the only one to strongly suspect a romance.
And the idea of a romance gone bad? That hadn’t come up at all.
Until today.
Becca.
Excruciating new possibilities.
Kerri had flagged Liddy Barron’s file the second she left. Into that new file Kerri copied the Grace interview, Becca’s interview with her matching observations, and the enlarged selfie of Becca and Sasha with ShadowFace in the background.
She fell back in her chair, tired to the point of seeing double, unwilling to give it a rest.
The body language of photos was something Kerri believed in strongly, and Becca’s selfie alone was a breakthrough. It wasn’t much but it put up a big red flag to any thought of sleep. Kerri had already put ShadowFace through facial recognition software, had expected nothing and gotten nothing - just dizzy watching the faces zoom past: perp faces - not faces like the selfie’s well-built guy in a polo shirt and blazer, his type more likely to be a high-class swindler than a stalker.
Kerri switched her thoughts back to Liddy Barron.
A bizarre story, but still... The eerie water connection combined with Becca’s photo of the Hudson – correction - Sasha’s photo of the Hudson, clearly taken in the middle of the river from a boat, then shared to Becca’s Facebook page.
See where I Liked and posted all excited? Wow, nice! Whose boat were you on!?
&
nbsp; Sasha had taken the moment to like the question - but had avoided answering. And Becca told them, “I started thinking it was maybe some guy with a jealous wife or girlfriend.”
Oh boy. It was all copied into the Liddy Barron file.
From the hall, sounds of feet pounding up the stairs then two night detectives rushed in, one with blood on his shirt. He grimaced hi and headed upstairs, to the showers and the crib. The other gave a wave, inquired about Kerri’s cat (“still climbing up your curtains?”), and started notes at his desk.
Kerri made a fist and gnawed on her thumb a little; went back to trying to connect things.
Alex had pinpointed where Sasha’s photo was taken: the river off 89th or 90th Street. He’d recognized the Jersey side; that spot was up just a bit from the 79th Street Boat Basin.
Where Liddy Barron with her water obsession said they docked their boat.
The police knew the Boat Basin well. From late April through October it bustled with tourists taking pictures, weekend sailors crowding the docks for an afternoon sail, parties going on days and nights with the boats still moored. There had been drownings there, too, usually alcohol-related and accidental, but not till proven otherwise.
A very popular place.
Her headache was blasting, so Kerri lay her head down on her desk and closed her eyes. Dammit, three hours ago her excitement had surged for the first time in weeks. Now what? The desk top was cool, at least; really a nice place to help the head and kinda like an ice pack when you got right down to it; just float with your eyes closed and stop trying to think at warp speed; let the thoughts just come…
Problem…big problem: were ShadowFace in the selfie and whoever took Sasha on their boat even the same person? Who knew? More to the point - what if they were the same person?
Circumstantial! Prove a connection to the disappearance!
Could Sasha Perry have wandered over and flirted with some boat owner? Been invited for a sail and never come home?
Kerri groaned, louder than she’d intended. The night detective who’d inquired about her cat looked over. “You just blow a fuse?”
She opened her eyes. “Yup.”
“You should try real sleeping once in a while, seriously.”
“It’s overrated.”
“So why are you moaning? Go upstairs. Lie down. Leave a note for room service.”
“Ha, you’re a riot.” Kerri watched him go back to his notes, closed her eyes again.
Umm, no…Sasha didn’t seem the type to flirt with strangers, and she’d left her apartment with just enough for an overnight - there was little missing from her room - which suggested she felt comfortable headed to someone she knew.
Someone she knew…yes.
Kerri sat up again and went back to Liddy Barron’s file.
Her laptop keys clicked as she googled Paul Barron, neuroscience…and there he was, lots of pictures. Good-looking, dark-haired with another dark-haired guy in one picture, both of them fifteen months ago in black tie and tux, smiling at some big science shindig.
“…recipients of the coveted Baker-Renolfi Pharmaceuticals grant for advanced anesthesia research,” said the caption, naming the man next to Barron as Carl Finn, NYU adjunct professor of human biology, M.D., PhD in neuroscience like Paul Barron…
Kerri blinked; stared at the screen.
Both men taught where Sasha Perry had been a student. Not just the university, but in the same department.
And the other guy Carl Finn was also an M.D.?
What they’d asked Becca flashed through Kerri’s mind: “Did you know Sasha was questioned for forging a narcotics prescription?”
Becca had known, seemed almost to feel it was no big deal, everybody did it. Sasha had promised never again to the cops, but – forget that. Once they found how easy it was, most of them went back to needing/wanting their uppers and then downers to come down from the uppers - and Sasha was a study all night kind of girl.
And only M.D.s could prescribe narcotics! Okay…legally, though people got their drugs everywhere these days, not even counting online.
Kerri stared at the photo of the two men at the science thing, realizing that Carl Finn looked a little like the guy in the selfie. Close but not…wait… ShadowFace last May was thinner. Carl Finn grinning in his tux was a bit heavier, fuller-faced.
But fifteen months! People lost or gained weight all the time, and ShadowFace had his chin down – as if belatedly realizing Becca was taking her pic with Sasha and he didn’t want to be in it.
Why?
Professional as well as personal threat? Kerri again heard Becca say, “…maybe some guy with a jealous wife or girlfriend.”
If Sasha had continued somehow getting her uppers, she might have been wary of the types who peddled narcotics even on campus; wary too of getting it online and possibly contaminated.
More likely she’d seek out another M.D.
Kerri went onto the U’s website to read more about Carl Finn. Smart guy, he had a PhD plus an M.D. - got it from a good med school, then took the all-important year of residency and passed his medical boards – without which he wouldn’t be qualified to use his medical degree or prescribe drugs - and then he dropped out of medicine. Switched to the post-doc program in neuroscience.
And he was on Facebook! With friends, oh lots of friends and good times and…women. One appeared lots with his arm around her…a hard-looking blonde, mid thirties named – Kerri tag-searched her – Terri Lynde, hotshot corporate lawyer, no doubt a really big earner. Photos adoring her stopped abruptly in May. Whatsamatter, did the hard-working, has-to-teach-too researcher lose his hold on Lady Big Bucks?
Becca’s voice again: “I started thinking it was maybe some guy with a jealous wife or girlfriend.”
Scroll, scroll…more Carl Finn photos…then Kerri’s fingers stilled.
There he was, whooping it up with Paul Barron and some third guy in front of a docked sailboat. Could that be Barron’s boat? There was something familiar about the third guy, behind sunglasses with his dark hair messed, but the headache throbbed and Kerri was seeing double and her attention was on Finn.
In her mind she added weight to ShadowFace and decided yes, that could be him - which still left everything circumstantial - plus it wasn’t him it was Paul Barron who owned a boat, there was nothing in Facebook about Carl Finn owning a boat…oh dammit, dammit…
17
She couldn’t breathe. Her chest heaved and her arms flailed but no use, she was going down, seeing air bubbles escape from her nose. The blue circle of sky above was getting smaller. She saw the boat’s hull on the surface and Paul’s legs kicking away from her, swimming back up. Don’t go! Then a hand touched her shoulder. She rolled in the murk clutching her soaking red teddy bear and saw Sasha, her hair swimming around her face as she wept, couldn’t be comforted by the red teddy bear as she took it, and was swept away.
Liddy jerked awake, trembling, feeling Paul holding her.
“…a dream, Lids. Just a dream…”
Her hands went to her face as her heart throbbed, felt like something was crushing it. “I was drowning and you were swimming away,” she breathed. “Just…leaving me.”
“Because of last night.” He held her tighter. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
His hair was wet, must have just turned off the shower. Last night came back…
They had fought more when they got back, then had gone all silent and sullen and gone to bed mad. He conked right out, of course – he always did. Liddy had lain awake miserable, then had dropped into an uneasy sleep. Twice she’d jerked awake trembling, seen the clock at three and five-thirty, didn’t remember closing her eyes again. Then the dream.
She was still seeing Sasha and…a red teddy bear? Where had that come from?
Paul had her sitting up now, his soft, urgent voice just a drumming white noise still emitting sorry, oh Lids, I’m a turd, we’ve been through such pressure and that was before the accident. He was drying her
tears with the belt of his terry robe. “The bad feeling will dissipate. Hey,” he urged sweetly, “we move in four days, it’s exciting! Get cracking, you’ll be so busy today you’ll barely have time to fit in Alex.”
Who? Oh. Nooo…was it Friday already?
Alex Minton, dear shrink who’d said she was getting so much better. “Four o’clock appointment,” Liddy muttered, feeling her cold dread deepen.
“Don’t cancel.” Paul brushed her hair from her brow. “You surfacing? Bogeyman dream leaving?”
“Yeah,” she croaked, but it wasn’t. She still saw the red teddy bear and couldn’t understand it; managed to force a smile as he squeezed her, and then pulled back with his eyes almost beseeching. “God,” he said. “I so want all of this behind us, a whole new, wonderful start.”
“Wish granted.” She smiled again, this time more gamely, raised her hand and waved an imaginary wand above their heads.
Paul finished dressing, kissed her again as she still lay conked under the covers, and left.
A red teddy bear? Where in God’s name…?
She let her mind wander, back to the sad place and time when she was growing up. A shabby, depressed household, sickness, alcoholism, everyone too overwhelmed to pay much attention to each other, but when still young Liddy had found escape in books, read voraciously, lived in her books which were her safe place - except for one that had broken her heart. She’d even blocked out the title; now rooted in her still foggy mind, and back it came. The Red Pony, by…more rooting, and the author’s name came: John Steinbeck. Fifteen, had she been when she read it? And cried for days. Vowed never to forgive that terrible man Steinbeck for having written something so sad.
But she’d never forgotten the book, not really. Like a scar that’s an unavoidable part of growing up, it had always stayed with her, under the surface but still there, a big emotional scar that, in retrospect, was a lesson in life.
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