by David Hosp
I decide to try to change the subject. ‘Who is the girl we’re talking to now?’
‘Taylor Westerbrooke,’ he says. ‘Next one on the pile.’
I open the file and flip to the next image. The striking young redhead from the LifeScene that Yvette GhostWalked the day before stares out at me, her smile thick with enthusiasm and possibilities. ‘With luck, this will go better than the last one.’
We arrive at the Westerbrooke residence on Hilltop Avenue five minutes later. There is a large stone archway that we pass through, which leads to a wide, circular, cobbled driveway. We park near the front door and get out, both looking up at the enormous house. It is a three-story stone Georgian building with two wings and columns out front. It’s on at least two acres near the heart of the city.
‘Looks like her modeling career is going well,’ Killkenny says.
I nod, and we walk to the front door. We press the doorbell to the left of the door and we can hear the elaborate chimes sounding from inside. A moment later the door opens and we are greeted by a very attractive redheaded woman in her early forties. ‘Can I help you?’ she says.
I am holding the file and I flip it open to the page for Taylor Westerbrooke, glancing from the photo to the woman. It looks like her, but the age is off.
‘Miss Westerbrooke?’ Killkenny says tentatively.
‘Mrs,’ she says with emphasis. ‘Mrs Westerbrooke, yes. How can I help you?’
‘Taylor Westerbrooke?’ I ask.
She frowns, the confusion apparently resolved. ‘Meghan Westerbrooke,’ she says. ‘You’re looking for my daughter.’
‘Yes, Killkenny says. ‘Does she live here?’
‘Just for the summer,’ she says. ‘She’s home from school. She’s a sophomore at Skidmore.’ Killkenny and I look at each other; we’ve both done the math in our heads, and it doesn’t add up. He takes out his badge and holds it up for the woman to see. Her frown deepens. ‘What is this all about?’
‘Can we come in?’ Killkenny asks.
It takes a moment for her to respond and I can see her debating. ‘By all means,’ she says at last, stepping back. I follow Killkenny in. We’re in a two-story foyer; a grand staircase sweeps up from one side, and archways lead in three directions – left, right and center. There is artwork on the walls that I’m guessing is worth more than Ma’s house.
Mrs Westerbrooke leads us through the archway to the left, into a sitting room dominated by yellow florals. She motions us to sit on a deep couch, and sits across a glass-topped coffee table from us on a Queen Anne chair. ‘What has she done now?’ she asks with a sigh.
‘She’s not in trouble,’ Killkenny says. ‘At least, not in the way you’re suggesting, and not as far as I know.’
‘Oh.’ She seems wrongfooted now. ‘What’s this about, then?’
‘Taylor did some modeling for a company called NextLife a few years ago, is that right?’
She waves a hand. ‘It’s possible,’ she says, wrinkling her nose as though she finds the notion distasteful. ‘She used to model when she was younger. It was her father’s idea; I never really approved. That was when she started—’ She cuts herself off and looks at the two of us, realizing that she may be saying too much. ‘That’s when she started having more of an attitude.’
‘The job we’re talking about was a little over four years ago. How old was she then?’ Killkenny asks.
She frowns. ‘She’s nineteen now, so that means she would have been fifteen back then. She’d already been modeling for a couple of years, of course. They like the girls to start young.’
Killkenny gives me a look of wonder, then turns back to her. ‘Mrs Westerbrooke, do you know whether she did a modeling job for NextLife?’
‘I don’t, but I didn’t keep track of what jobs she was doing back then.’
‘When she was in her early teens? You didn’t keep track of what modeling jobs she was taking?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Did you know she was modeling in the nude?’
She looks shocked. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course she wasn’t. She was a child.’
‘Yes, she was. You can see why I’m asking.’
She’s silent for a moment. ‘That’s not possible,’ she says. ‘It would be illegal, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, it would. It’s called child pornography.’
‘There, just as I said. She couldn’t have been modeling nude; the agency wouldn’t have permitted it.’
We hear a door open and the sound of heels clicking on the marble foyer floor. A moment later Taylor Westerbrooke walks into the room. She has a mane of fiery red hair that falls about her shoulders in a deliberately untamed way. She’s wearing a short skirt and a loose T-shirt, and she’s carrying a giant coffee. She’s wearing headphones, and large sunglasses cover half her face. She’s a few feet into the room before she notices that we are there, and she pulls up short. ‘Oh,’ she says, and I hear her mother’s influence in her tone. She scowls at her mother. ‘I didn’t know you were in here.’
She turns and starts back in the other direction. Her mother tries to flag her down. ‘Taylor,’ she says. The girl either can’t hear her mother over the music coming out of the earphones or she ignores her. ‘Taylor!’ her mother calls louder. I think I sense a pause in her step, but she picks up her pace again with only a slight miss in beat.
‘Excuse me, Miss!’ Killkenny shouts. He’s loud enough that it startles even me, and I think for a moment Taylor Westerbrooke may fall off her heels. She turns around and looks at all three of us. She reaches up and takes the buds out of her ears.
Mrs Westerbrooke, who is clearly also startled, stares at Killkenny for a moment. ‘These men have a couple of questions they need to ask you,’ she says.
The girl comes slowly back into the room, a look somewhere between annoyance and boredom on her face. ‘What?’ she demands in a tone that is pure teenage entitlement.
‘It’s about your modeling, dear,’ her mother says. ‘These men are under the impression that you posed in the nude when you were younger. I was just explaining that they were mistaken.’
The girl looks at her mother like she’s an idiot. ‘No, they’re not,’ she says.
Mrs Westerbrooke looks like she’s swallowed gum. ‘Of course they are,’ she says. ‘You were far too young to pose without clothes.’
‘What are you talking about, Mom? Did you ever see the clothes they used to put me in on the runways? Shit, I was practically naked at fashion shows’
For a moment her mother looks relieved. ‘Oh, well yes, if you’re talking about metaphorically, there were times when the clothes were probably more risqué than they should have been, but you never actually posed without anything on.’
‘Sure I did.’
This time it looks as though the gum has gotten caught in Mrs Westerbrooke’s throat and might choke her. ‘You . . . did . . . not.’ The words come out with emphasis and authority, as though that would be enough to make them true.
‘Don’t be such a prude, Mother. Sometimes I wore a schoolgirl outfit, too. That seemed to go over big.’
‘You were a child!’
Looking at Taylor Westerbrooke, it occurs to me that – age aside – it’s probably been a long time since she was really a child.
‘It would have been illegal. No one would have let you.’
‘I lied about my age,’ Taylor says. ‘We all did. If you wouldn’t take your clothes off, you couldn’t make any real money. My allowance only went so far back then.’
Mrs Westerbrooke tries to say something, but no sound comes out of her mouth. Killkenny takes the opportunity to gain some control over the direction of the discussion. ‘Did you ever model for NextLife?’
She makes a face. ‘That was a freakshow.’ She tosses her hair back and puts one of her buds back in so that she can listen to the music as she talks to us. ‘They had no class whatsoever, and no idea how to treat the talent.’ She emphasizes the word talent. �
�I swear to God, the photographer might as well have been working a picture booth at the mall. There was no art to it at all. I was just standing there, and these old guys watched as he took pictures all up and down my body.’ She shakes her head at the memory. ‘They didn’t even have decent coffee for us.’
Her mother listens, her mouth open. ‘Taylor Westerbrooke!’ she manages to choke out. ‘How could you?’
‘Oh please, Mother. I was working.’
‘Without clothes?’
She looks at her mother with venom. ‘It’s not like it was the first time.’
‘You did this more than once?’
‘You’re going to act now like you care what I was doing? It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?’
Killkenny jumps back in, trying to keep the mother-daughter spat from spinning beyond his control. ‘It’s the NextLife job we need to know about.’
The girl looks at him dismissively. ‘Who are you?’ she demands. Killkenny takes out his badge, holds it up. She looks past the badge and right into his eyes. ‘So? I haven’t done anything illegal. Not lately, and not that you’d know about.’
I hear Mrs Westerbrooke gasp. This conversation may be enough to keep me from ever having children. ‘Child pornography is illegal,’ Killkenny points out.
‘And you’re going to arrest the child? I’m the victim, aren’t I?’
Killkenny shakes his head. ‘We’re not here to arrest anyone. But we do need to know what you remember about that photo shoot.’
‘Like you could call it that,’ she says. ‘I’ve pretty much told you all I remember. It was cold, and there was no coffee. I was in and out, and they gave me a check. That was pretty much it.’
‘Do you remember anything about the people who were there during the shoot?’
She shakes her head. ‘There were four or five, I think, but I can’t really remember. None of them stand out.’
‘What is this all about, Detective?’ Mrs Westerbrooke asks.
‘Have you ever been on the NextLife website?’ Killkenny asks.
‘Goodness, no,’ she says.
‘How about you?’ he asks the girl.
She shakes her head. ‘No. I have friends who like it, but I’m not big into computers. I have a real life, you know?’
‘Well, your images are part of a library of several hundred models that’s used to create avatars. You understand what that means?’
‘Sure. The fake people in computer-land, right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Well, three of the other women who modeled to create that library have been killed. It could be a coincidence, but we’re investigating.’
Mrs Westerbrooke gasps again. ‘Oh my God! You don’t think my daughter could be in any danger, do you?’
‘Probably not. Has anything out of the ordinary happened recently?’
‘I wish,’ the girl replies.
‘No contact from men you don’t know? No one reaching out to you, looking to get . . . involved?’
She thinks about that for a moment. ‘There was a boy I met at a bar a week or so ago. I was planning on going out with him; he’s really cute. But that’s it.’
‘This is someone you don’t know?’
‘Yeah. Like I said, we met at a bar.’
‘Taylor!’ her mother says sharply. ‘You’re still only nineteen. You shouldn’t be out at bars.’
The girl rolls her eyes. She asks Killkenny, ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t go out with him?’
‘Until we get this straightened out, and we know what we are talking about, you may want to deal only with people you already know.’
‘I’m not interested in any of the boys I know,’ she says in a pouty voice.
‘It’s for your own good,’ her mother says. ‘Besides, you’re grounded.’ The attempt to enforce discipline draws a loud, sharp laugh.
‘Your mother’s right,’ Killkenny says. ‘It’s better for now if you don’t deal with anyone you don’t know.’
‘He’s so cute, though!’ The pout comes out again.
Killkenny stands. ‘I think we’ve got all we need. We’ll let you know if we learn more. And please, by all means, let us know if anything unusual happens.’
‘We will, of course, Detective,’ Mrs Westerbrooke says. She walks us back out through the foyer to the door. ‘I’m sorry about Taylor’s behavior,’ she continues. ‘She’s always been . . . a difficult girl.’ She looks at Killkenny nervously. ‘You’re not going to put any of what she said in any sort of an official report or anything, are you? I don’t want her to get into any trouble.’
‘Our files are not public,’ Killkenny says. ‘For the moment, ma’am, I would just keep an eye on your daughter. She could use some looking after.’
Mrs Westerbrooke shakes her head. ‘You have no idea.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
As we pull out of the Westerbrooke driveway I turn and glance at Mrs Westerbrooke standing there, looking dazed and confused. For a moment, I wonder whether she’ll even go back into the house. It seems just as likely that she’ll flee; get into her car, leave it all behind, and drive. It constantly amazes me how rarely wealth translates into happiness. Growing up in my lower-middle-class neighborhood in Charlestown, we always assumed that money was the answer. It’s what everyone chased back then. What they all still seem to chase. And we certainly all thought that those who made their money in legitimate ways – and those who’d had wealth all their lives – sat around in their safe, secure homes marveling at their good fortune. I never knew anyone who was really wealthy back then. It wasn’t until I went to MIT that I started to have a window into the lives of the people I’d always thought of as privileged, and what I saw shocked me. I saw insecurity and bitterness and a lack of fulfillment that rivaled what I’d grown up with. It sometimes expressed itself in different ways, but it seemed, at its core, to be the same. And so many of my experiences with the rich people I’d come across since then, like the Westerbrookes and Josh Pinkerton, had reinforced my suspicion that I’d been misled about the effects of money while growing up.
‘Fifteen years old,’ Killkenny says as he drives, interrupting my musings on wealth.
‘Huh?’
‘That’s how old she was when those images were taken. Fifteen. Nice company you’ve got there.’
‘She lied about her age.’
‘And apparently the company didn’t do anything to verify how old she actually was.’
I have no response ‘Where to now?’ I ask.
‘We’re headed north, up to Sommerville. The next girl.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Check the file.’
I flip open the file and turn to the next set of images. For a moment I can’t breathe. My girl from De Sade’s LifeScene with the canopied bed is staring up at me. ‘Kendra Madison,’ I say quietly. I’m not even aware that I’ve said her name out loud.
‘Kendra Madison,’ Killkenny repeats. ‘What do you think we’ll find with this one?’
I’m staring at her picture, but I’m seeing her tied to the bed. In my mind, I’m looking down at her from De Sade’s eyes, watching her as the ecstasy builds in her face, feeling her move beneath me. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I really don’t know.’
Sommerville was originally part of Charlestown. It split off more than 150 years ago, as Charlestown was urbanizing. Any hope that the split would maintain the rural feel of the area ten minutes due north of Boston, wedged between the northern corners of Cambridge and Charlestown, turned out to be a pipe dream: Sommerville is now the most densely populated municipality in New England. Bounded by the Seven Hills of the town, it was the first city to fly the Stars and Stripes; it was the first town where a residential phone line was installed – running to the laboratory where Thomas Edison did much of his work; and it was the birthplace of the revered American delicacy, Marshmallow Fluff. It was also the home of the Winter Hill gang, the Irish-American mob that ran most of the Boston area for decades through
the 1990s.
As we drive through the narrow streets crowded with blue-collar workers and artists, deadbeats and homesteaders, I consider the path I have set out upon. Yvette asked me whether being present as a company representative – to know exactly what was said – was the only reason I’d demanded to accompany Killkenny this morning. I lied when I said it was. In truth, a large part of my motivation had to do with meeting Kendra Madison.
My girl.
I know how stupid that sounds. I’ve seen her twice in a fantasy constructed by another man – not just another man, but a psychopath. I haven’t even seen her, but I’ve seen an avatar that was created based on pictures of her. There is no reason for me to have developed the obsession that has crawled over me and seeped into my pores. But that’s the thing about obsession; it has no reason and obeys no logic. I tell myself that meeting the real woman is the cure – that’s the reason I’ve put myself in this position. It’s possible, but that’s certainly not my driving belief. The truth is that I simply couldn’t resist the possibility of meeting this woman. I’ve constructed fantasies about what might happen, which I would be embarrassed to share with anyone. It’s like I’m fourteen, and the wave of unfamiliar hormones is flooding my veins again.
It’s just past eleven o’clock in the morning when we pull up in front of her house in the nicer area of Sommerville, out west toward Cambridge. It’s a large Victorian building with gables and turrets, and a covered porch out front. If you blocked out the bustle of the neighborhood, you could almost imagine the place as it was built, probably 120 years ago, in a sleepy rural area with land and quiet.
Killkenny and I walk up the steps onto the front porch. Neither one of us has talked for a while and I wonder whether he’s noticed that I’ve gone quiet. I suspect not. Like most men, he strikes me as someone who accepts silence as a natural consequence of having little to say at the moment. He does not seem the sort to read into every conversational respite.
There is no bell that we can see by the door, so Killkenny reaches out and takes hold of the brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. A moment later the door is opened by a young woman with auburn hair streaked with blonde at the temples. She is compact, and she’s wearing a T-shirt that accentuates her breasts. Below the waist she has on what looks like pink pajama bottoms.
