Into the Dark

by Alison Gaylin

  She turned on her phone, and tapped in the first number.

  The new girl in Errol Ludlow’s employ was just leaving his apartment when his cell phone rang. She was one of those women who looked better walking away than coming toward you. And that was saying something, as her front—all of it—was superlative. Errol smiled, took in the view. “A most delightful visit,” he said.

  And it had been. He normally didn’t allow any of his employees into his apartment—it was always a mistake to mix business with pleasure—but Diandra was special. Yes, that was what she called herself—Diandra, a diminutive of the Greek Dianthe, meaning “flower of the gods.” Errol suspected her real name was probably Madison or Brittany—she was about as Greek as his left butt cheek—but oh, she was indeed a heavenly creature.

  “You are a superb private detective,” Errol told the back of Diandra. “What you did was truly above and beyond.”

  She turned, delivering a grin that could melt a man’s belt buckle. “Are you talking about the pictures I took at the Hustler Club? Or . . . the way we celebrated my taking them?”

  Errol blushed—blushed, at his age and experience. Truth be told, he had been talking about the pictures—startlingly clear photographs of some poor, soon-to-be-divorced schmuck by the name of Dr. Marvin Greene with a weakness for double Es and far too many hundred-dollar bills at his disposal. But now that she mentioned it . . . “Well . . . I mean . . . the celebration was . . .”

  “Above.”

  “Yes.”

  “And beyond.”

  “God, yes.”

  “Well let me just tell you, Mr. Ludlow. It is a genuine pleasure to be on your staff.” Diandra gazed at him for a few moments, making sure the double entendre landed and stuck.

  “Uh . . . thank you?”

  She slipped through the front door and closed it behind her. And only then, when Errol could breathe again, did he realize that his cell phone had been trilling for easily thirty seconds. He picked it up. “Ludlow.”

  “Pardon?”

  Errol always made it a point to enunciate. His mother had been hard of hearing, and so since his youth, he’d taken great pains to ensure he was understood by all around him. In other words, no one said, “Pardon” to him, ever. “Lud. Low.” He glanced at the screen on his cell phone. California area code. No wonder. They were all high out there. All that smog and creosote.

  “I’m sorry,” said the woman on the other line. “My name is Jill and I . . . uh . . . I found this number on a disposable phone and . . . well . . . I thought you would be a woman.”

  “Your husband’s disposable phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your husband’s name?”

  She cleared her throat. “It’s Gary. Gary Freeman.”

  Errol’s jaw tensed up. “Gary Freeman?” Wheels turned in his head, scenarios playing out in fast-motion. Should I tell her the truth? Where would that get me? “I’ve never heard of him,” Errol said, finally.

  “But . . . I . . . I saw several calls to you on the phone . . .”

  “You live in Southern California, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “South Pasadena? I recognize the area code.”

  “Actually, just Pasadena. Not South.”

  “Did you ever think your husband might be keeping that phone for a friend? I have several clients in Southern California.”

  “Clients?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” Errol said. “My specialty is cheating spouses. You might see how someone wouldn’t want a phone with my number on it to be seen by . . . well, I suppose you’d call them loved ones.”

  “You . . . You’re sure . . .”

  “You can look me up online, ma’am. Ludlow Investigations. I have my own Web site.”

  “Yes, but my husband . . .”

  “I don’t know a Gary Freeman, ma’am.” Ludlow hung up.

  Moments later, he was looking up Gary Freeman’s number in his contacts—the number Freeman had requested, after firing Errol, that he never call again. He took a few moments, figuring out in his head how much his continued silence might be worth. He didn’t have much on Gary Freeman, this was true. But he did have Lula Belle’s Web address. He had that fascinating download—such talent!—and he had the knowledge that Gary Freeman wanted to find Lula Belle, very badly. Errol smiled. He’d been around enough angry wives to know that his keeping quiet about these few factoids could be worth . . . Well, enough to keep Diandra in top-shelf champagne for quite a long while.

  He tapped Gary Freeman’s number into his phone, his smile broadening. This day just kept getting better and better.

  “Why would he ever leave you?” Trent asked Robin Tannenbaum’s computer, his hands caressing the keyboard. “You’re so beautiful.”

  Hildy Tannenbaum gave Brenna a worried look.

  She shrugged. “He likes machinery.”

  “I saw this model at the Mac trade show at the Javits, but they wouldn’t let me touch it. It feels really good,” Trent breathed. “Oh, and hello Miss T–2 line, you comely little wench . . .”

  “I don’t know whether you realize it,” Brenna told Trent, “but you just said all that out loud.”

  They were in Robin’s room—a small, sparsely furnished bedroom with bare walls. Clearly, Robin didn’t share his mother’s affection for big, complicated furniture—this was more of a dorm room aesthetic—only without the posters, the beer can pyramids, the piles of dirty clothes and stolen orange safety cones. In fact, the only remarkable thing in the entire room was the souped-up Mac Pro, which Trent seemed to be taking an undue amount of pleasure in exploring.

  “Any reason why he’d need a high-speed line, Mrs. Tannenbaum?” Brenna said. “Did he do freelance work?”

  “Yes,” said Hildy. But it was clear she had no desire to elaborate.

  Brenna almost felt as though she could turn to Robin, ask him herself. Though Hildy claimed the room had been vacated for two months, it had a look to it as though he would return any minute. The bed was made, yes, but hastily so—the plain beige spread pulled over the pillow but not tucked under it, the shades drawn. A stale, lonely scent hung in the air—sweat, unwashed sheets—and a few Louise Hay self-help books were stacked on the bedside table—a pair of reading glasses and a yellow highlighter perched on top as if he’d just rested them there a few minutes ago. Brenna picked up the top book—The Power Is Within You. A recent printing of an old book, dog-eared far from the end, at page 162. Brenna skimmed the highlighted page. Why would you leave an unfinished book behind? “Are you sure he actually meant to leave home?”

  She nodded. “He taped a note to the refrigerator. Would you like to see it?”

  “Sure.”

  Hildy exited the room. Soon after, Brenna heard groans coming from the computer speakers. She looked up to see a man and three women on screen in a tangle of sweaty gratification, a maid’s apron the only item of clothing between the four of them.

  “Trent,” Brenna said. “Stop looking at Robin Tannenbaum’s porn.”

  “It’s not his porn,” Trent said. “It’s his job.”

  Brenna raised her eyebrows. “He’s a porn star?”

  “Porn editor. Found this in his Final Cut Pro . . . which sounds kinda dirty if you don’t know it’s an editing program.” He snickered.

  “So that’s why he’s got the high-speed line,” Brenna said. “So he can send the edited films to his employer.”

  “Happy Endings.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s the company he works for—says it at the bottom of all his files.” He turned to Brenna. “I’ve . . . uh . . . heard of them before. They do nice work.”

  The door pushed open and Hildy walked in.

  “Oops,” said Trent. He closed the video fast, though something told Brenna that even if he’d kept the clip up there in all its blazing, groaning glory, Hildy would have ignored it. She’d known what her son did for a living, just as she’d known about her hus
band’s Playboy stash. Brenna could tell in the way she’d averted her gaze when Brenna had asked her about Robin’s involvement with Web sites, when Trent had asked if he worked in film; she could tell in how carefully she’d chosen the words “professional work on his computer.” Hildy was going to be tough.

  “I have the note.” Hildy handed it to Brenna—typewritten and just a few lines long. “He left it for me on October 9.”

  Mother:

  No need to keep dinner warm. May be gone for a little while.

  Best, RJT

  Brenna looked at Hildy. “Best, RJT?”

  “He’s never been very demonstrative.”

  “Really?”

  “Not with me,” she said, quietly. “Not in the house.”

  “So you didn’t know many of his friends.”

  “I didn’t know any of them.” Hildy took a breath. And for several moments, the only sound in the room was the soft clack of the keyboard as Trent explored Robin’s computer.

  Brenna said, “Tell me about the woman with the Southern accent.”

  “I didn’t think Robbie actually knew her,” she said. “I walked by his room and I heard this voice and I assumed it must have been a . . . a movie.”

  Brenna said, “Do you recall what the woman was saying?”

  “I heard, ‘Let me go, my love.’ ”

  Brenna closed her eyes, the previous night seeping back into her mind—she felt her desk chair beneath her, her eyes blurry with sleep, her mind starting to fog . . . Brenna’s seventeenth Lula Belle download plays out, but she’s finding it hard to focus. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and then open on the screen, on Lula Belle on the floor, palms in front of her, both legs pretzeled behind her shadow of a head. “I’ve been with him for three weeks and I don’t like him anymore. He keeps looking at my neck like he wants to bite it, and sometimes, I could swear he’s got fangs. It’s the dust, I know. The dust. It’s making me see things.”

  Brenna squints at the screen. The dust?

  “ ‘Let me go,’ I tell him, this man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. ‘Let me go, my love.’ ”

  Hildy said, “Something about bites on her neck . . .”

  “It was a download,” Brenna said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “Other nights, though,” she said slowly. “I mean . . . I couldn’t make out what was being said. I tried not to hear, to be honest . . . But she sounded so different than the other . . . um . . . female voices on Robbie’s computer.”

  “How so?” Brenna said.

  “She sounded as though she were speaking directly to him.”

  Brenna nodded. “She’s like that.”

  Trent looked at Hildy. “I don’t see anyone in his Skype contacts. Of course he could have deleted her.”

  “I don’t know what Skype contacts are.”

  Trent started to explain, but Brenna wasn’t listening, her attention drawn away, as it was, by the pile of books on Robin’s bedside table. Underneath the three Louise Hays was a library book. She could tell what it was just from glancing at the spine, but she picked it up anyway. Extraordinary Children by RF Lieberman.

  She opened it up, glanced at the date. It had been checked out on October 5—the same date Brenna had appeared on Faith’s show . . . The klieg lights shine hot on Brenna’s face. She’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and her hair is down and she sweats at the temples. She craves a drink of water. Faith smiles at her. Her TV makeup is flawless, the warm air between them thick with the sweet smell of it. “You ready, Brenna? We’re on in five.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m gonna start out by talking about your childhood. That okay with you?” She’s got Lieberman’s book in her lap. Brenna’s stares at it, then looks up, into Faith’s sky blue eyes. The lights make them twinkle. “Sure,” she says.

  “Great.”

  “Can you tell me something, though?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “How’s Jim?”

  Brenna bit her lip hard. She put the book back. Could be a coincidence, she thought. But if so, it was a strange one. Robin Tannenbaum checks Lieberman’s book out of the library the same day Faith shows it to her viewers on Sunrise Manhattan. The next day, Lula Belle sends Gary an e-mail, instructing him to send this month’s check to a PO box under Robin’s name and located in the town where Brenna grew up. Three days later, he leaves a typed note for his mother and is never heard from again. Did Brenna’s appearance on Sunrise Manhattan trigger Robin’s disappearance? Not necessarily. But the fact remained: It happened first.

  “You can take the computer,” Hildy was saying to Trent. “Do whatever you have to do with it for as long as you have to do it.”

  “You mean it?”

  “I know this will sound strange, but it will be a relief not to have it around.”

  Brenna looked at her.

  “It frightens me,” she said. “Robbie spent so much time with it, and he’s gone, and I . . . I feel . . .”

  “Like the computer took him away?” Brenna said.

  “Yes. Like it sucked him in when I wasn’t looking, then printed out that note so I wouldn’t suspect anything, and . . . Oh, this sounds even stranger when I say it out loud.”

  Brenna put a hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t. I understand.” And she did. She knew what it was like to have someone warm and alive beside her one day, gone the next, the whole house filled with the lack of her—the Rose Royce record on the turntable in her bedroom, the strands of blonde hair in the brush she left behind, the clothes in her closet and the pack of Marlboro Lights stashed under her pillow and the Adam Ant poster on the hot pink wall that she’d painted herself. All of it still there, waiting . . .

  Please come home, Brenna thinks, standing in Clea’s old room at 10 P.M., August 29, 1983. She stares up at Adam Ant. He’s grinning at her. He’s grinning with those mean thin lips like he knows where Clea is, and he could be the man in the blue car. Anybody could be the man in the blue car . . .

  “Robbie didn’t take his cell phone,” Hildy said. “Honestly, why would someone go away for two months without taking their cell phone?”

  Brenna gave her a long look. “Maybe he didn’t want to be traced.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Almost any cell phone can be tracked because of GPS capability,” Brenna said. “Even the simplest phone is sending and receiving messages from the nearest tower every few minutes, so the user can be found that way—through triangulation. Right, Trent?”

  “But I would never think of doing that,” Hildy said. “I can barely use my own cell phone, let alone triangulate my son with towers.”

  “I’m sure, Hildy,” Brenna said.

  “So . . . why?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t you he was worried about.”

  Hildy’s eyes widened.

  “Can I have the cell phone, Mrs. Tannenbaum? It would be helpful to look at his contacts.”

  She nodded. Slowly, she slipped a smart phone out of the pocket of her robe, handed it to Brenna. “It never rings,” she said. “I carry it around anyway. Charge it every night. Do you want the charger?”

  “Please.”

  Hildy left the room. Brenna looked at RJ’s phone—an iPhone to match the Mac Pro. Brenna wasn’t a fan of smart phones. She found them pointless, but she’d used Trent’s for a couple of hours on October 19, 2008, when her flip phone died on a stakeout. It was just like this one. She clicked it on, tapped the phone icon. “Weird.”

  “What?” Trent said.

  “Looks like RJ made and received no calls on this thing.”

  “He probably deleted his call log,” he said. “I can recover that.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “But listen, can you first take a look at this download for me?”

  She gave him a look.

  “It’s G-rated, okay?”

  “What is it?”


  “Just a picture. It looks . . . personal.”

  Brenna moved to the computer.

  Trent clicked on the picture so that it filled his screen, and when Brenna saw it, her mouth went dry. Her pulse pounded and her head swam and for a moment, she feared she might collapse, right there in Robin Tannenbaum’s bedroom, with his sweat smell in the air and his mother entering the room again, his mother standing right behind her, asking, “Do you know those people? Do you, Brenna?”

  There is a connection. There has to be, my God, there has to.

  Brenna stared at the faded, scanned photo: a blonde girl, around ten, riding a blue bicycle, a much littler girl with curly dark hair balanced on the handlebars. Both were wearing bright, one-piece bathing suits. Both were laughing into the camera . . . Look at me, Daddy! Look!

  “He loved to take pictures of us,” Brenna whispered.

  “Who?” Trent said.

  “My father.”

  The picture, circa 1975, was of Brenna and Clea.

  Chapter 8

  Somehow, Brenna managed to make it through the next several minutes, Trent doing most of the talking as she tried to quiet the thrumming in her head, the pounding of her heart. Move through this, she told herself. You can fall apart later, but for now stay here. You have to stay here to find Robin Tannenbaum, and now you need to find him. You must find him.

  Hildy Tannenbaum provided them with her son’s credit card bills and banking information as well as a few recent pictures of him, then allowed them to open his closet, which was reasonably full—though, Brenna noticed, mostly with summer clothes. At the back of the closet, Brenna found a tripod—but no cameras, cables, lights . . .

  Winter clothes, film equipment. He’d left on a film job, most likely on the East Coast.

  You could tell so much more about a missing person by what was gone from his room than what remained in it. Brenna had always known this, yet never applied it to her own life. The picture from the computer screen—Brenna and Clea on that bike, Clea’s bike—had that ever been in Clea’s room? Had she seen her sister looking at it? Placing that very picture in a book and slamming it shut as Brenna walked in . . .