Death Before Facebook

by Smith, Julie

  “Skip,” he said, and she felt rather than saw him stand.

  She turned. “Oh, shit.”

  It was Steve Steinman. His face was a triangle of misery, pinched and drawn, not that different from Marguerite’s.

  “Steve,” she said, before he could comment on her comment. “I’m… This is a bad time.”

  Wind whooshed past her as the door closed behind Cappello.

  “I’ll wait,” he said. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

  She looked at her watch. Nearly lunchtime, and she was starving. Losing sleep made her hungry. “Maybe we could have lunch.”

  “I don’t think I could eat anything.”

  “Wait for me.”

  She went to get her purse, thinking she probably wouldn’t be able to eat either. But she had to, to keep going. How dare he put her in this position?

  She was furious.

  Yet by the time she’d returned, she was a little shaken as well, moved by his coming here, but she wasn’t sure how. She knew she felt something—but what was it?

  I don’t want to know. I haven’t got time for this shit.

  They went to a utilitarian restaurant not too far away, yet one you had to drive to—she had little time to waste walking back and forth.

  And I don’t want to spend that much time with him, either.

  When they were seated and she had ordered a sandwich, he a Coke, he said, “I can’t just let you kiss me off like this.”

  She didn’t know how to answer. Finally, she said, “You’re the one who did the kissing off.”

  That made him angry. “Can’t you be patient? What’s a year or two out of our lives?”

  “Steve, I told you it wasn’t a good time and it isn’t. I’m in the middle of a case and I’ve been up all night. Every time I turn around, the whole thing blows up in my face. I can’t think straight because I’m tired, and I certainly can’t think about this.”

  “I shouldn’t have come.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “Good-bye, Skip,” he said, and walked out.

  That’s it? That’s what he came two thousand miles for?

  She couldn’t believe he was gone, couldn’t fathom the disintegration of their relationship, could never in a thousand years have imagined they’d speak that way to each other.

  Her throat closed, and she couldn’t stop the tears. She pulled any old bill out of her purse—a ten, she was pretty sure—and left it, just wanting to get out. Once outside, a cold wind whipping, the sky gray and unforgiving, she felt at last the sadness at Steve’s loss. She’d used Darryl and the case to keep it at bay, and she couldn’t do it anymore. Sobbing, hardly able to see, hoping she didn’t trip, she hurried to her car.

  Lines from a poem came to her and wouldn’t go away:

  There is a singer everyone has heard,

  Loud, a midsummer and mid-wood bird…

  The question that he frames in all but words

  Is what to make of a diminished thing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  SHE SAT IN the car a long time, pulling herself together, trying to breathe deeply, to calm down. Her body wanted none of it, wanted to cry until there was no salt left in her.

  If only he hadn’t come in the middle of all this.

  But that was no good and she knew it. True, she was too tired and too tightly focused on her case to deal with it; true, she was interested in Darryl. But Steve had spent a lot of money and come a long way. How could you interpret that as something other than interest in keeping the relationship together?

  I know how—he screwed up and he’s backpedaling.

  Yes, but he still cares—he wouldn’t have come if he didn’t care.

  He made a unilateral decision.

  On the other hand, he’s right—we aren’t married.

  For the first time, it occurred to Skip to turn the tables: What if I were the one with the great career opportunity?

  The answer came in a nanosecond: I’d take it. And without asking Steve.

  So how could I ask him to do something I wouldn’t?

  She had that stomach-turning feeling you get when you’ve made a truly terrible mistake. But at the same time, she felt calmer, her breathing came less raggedly. The conflict inside her was resolving.

  My life might be ruined, but at least I have peace of mind.

  Someone tapped on her car window: Are you all right?

  She tried to smile. The passerby went on.

  To hell with this, I have to talk to Butsy.

  She had his phone number back at the office, had noticed it in Lenore’s address book. She went back, picked up the book, and saw that he lived quite near Cole and Marguerite.

  All the easier to commit a murder, she thought, her heart giving an extra little thud. Geoff she could see—but his own daughter? Did people really kill their own kids?

  Butsy met her at the door with Caitlin in hand. That made sense; he was her grandfather and nearest relative. Of course she’d been turned over to him.

  “Hey, Caitlin,” she said, absently touching the baby’s cheek.

  She introduced herself and said she was sorry about Lenore.

  “You knew Lenore? You know Caitlin?”

  “I haven’t known them long.”

  “Lord help this poor child.”

  “May I come in?”

  He looked surprised, as if he’d forgotten her presence. “Oh. Of course.”

  His old raised cottage looked as if he didn’t know how to keep house and couldn’t afford a housekeeper. Old-fashioned Venetian blinds—not even mini blinds—were closed against what little sun there was. No lights had been turned on, which made for a depressing room, but might have been a good thing—even in the semidark, Skip could see dust.

  The furniture was Naugahyde, an old sofa and an old recliner. An ancient carpet covered the floor.

  He let Caitlin down: “I think she’s wet.”

  Suddenly Skip realized that what had happened to Jimmy Dee had just happened to Butsy in spades. At least Jimmy Dee was prepared (though of course Butsy should have been if he’d knocked off Lenore). And at least his kids were out of diapers.

  “Do you have Pampers?” Skip said.

  “Pampers?”

  “Disposable diapers.”

  “I don’t have anything,” he said miserably. “Lenore had a friend, didn’t she? Someone older?”

  “Kit Brazil?”

  “Kit. That’s it. I met her at the funeral. Maybe I could call her.” He picked up a phone book from the coffee table. Simultaneously and for no apparent reason, Caitlin began to cry. “Oh, God, you wouldn’t know how to change a baby, would you?”

  Skip smiled. “I’m afraid not. Not if you don’t have any diapers.”

  He looked so sad and helpless, she said, “You should be with relatives today. Can I call someone for you?”

  He shrugged. “There isn’t anyone. Just me and the baby now. Us and the good Lord.” In the dim light, she thought she saw a glint that might have been a tear. He took out a handkerchief.

  “Were you close to your daughter?”

  “Not since she had the baby. Seemed to forget about me then. Say, you don’t know where I could get a nanny, do you?”

  “Sorry, I don’t.”

  He’d picked Caitlin up, but she only wailed more. Skip didn’t look forward to interviewing him over the din, but didn’t see much choice. If she held Caitlin herself, she’d lose her focus.

  “Mr. Marquer, it doesn’t seem to me as if you know how to take care of a baby.” It wasn’t what she’d come about, but first things first.

  He blustered. “I can do okay. I’ve got the key to Lenore’s. I can go over and get some stuff—Caitlin’s bed and everything. Mothers have babies and they don’t know anything. It’s no different. Lenore was only a kid—what did she know that I don’t? I raised her, you know.”

  “From this age?”

  “Her mother died when she was nine. But I wa
s always around—I was a regular dad.”

  His blustery determination wiped away the sadness. He set Caitlin down.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m sure you need to get to Lenore’s. I’ll tell you what I came about.”

  Skip longed to pick up the baby; she had a strange need to try to comfort this tiny being who’d lost her child-mother, a mother who was probably doing a lousy job, but who at least loved her child. Skip thought it possible that no one loved Caitlin now; Butsy didn’t even seem to know her.

  “I want to talk about Marguerite Terry.”

  “Marguerite? I barely know her.”

  “Maybe now, Butsy”—she was through with “Mr. Marquer”—“but you used to know her pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “No.” He sounded puzzled, but it was probably an act.

  “Come on. Go back in time about twenty-seven years. To when you had the affair with her.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Caitlin pulled at Skip’s hand, put out her arms to be picked up, as if she knew, somehow had intuited, what had happened, and she wanted to be held. Skip’s attention, which should have been on Butsy, slipped over to her.

  Perhaps because she was upset with herself, she spoke more sharply than she had to: “Can it, Butsy. The kid needs a home. You want to stay out of jail, you better talk.”

  “Jail? For what? Look, I’m a churchgoing man—”

  She just loved that one. As if going to church meant a person never broke the law or his marriage vows. She spoke harshly. “You figure it out.”

  He was silent for a moment, either trying to catch on or pretending. “Wait a minute. If I had an affair, I must have shot Leighton? Which means I killed Geoff? Is that what this is all about? What about Lenore? You want to give me one good reason why I’d kill my own daughter?”

  Caitlin set up a howl, a pathetic white heap on the dirty brown rug. Skip’s nerves were starting to fray, badly.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Butsy. Start talking—loud enough for me to hear over that.”

  “I didn’t even know Marguerite in those days. I mean, I saw her around. She sang in clubs and she was kind of a local figure about town. But I never met her to say hello to until Cole and I went into partnership. I didn’t even meet him until six or eight years ago.”

  “Well, why would she say you were lovers then?”

  “Marguerite said that?”

  Caitlin yelled louder. Skip didn’t speak.

  “She’s protecting Pearce.” He said it in the tones of a person making a big discovery. “Pearce Randolph got it on with her. I remember it—that was the phrase he used. He ‘got it on with her.’ He bragged about it.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t know—you know what they say about the sixties—if you can remember, you weren’t there.”

  “You better start remembering fast.”

  So I can get out of here.

  Neither she nor Butsy was making a move to help Caitlin. Skip was fed up with Butsy for not taking care of her, upset that she could do nothing herself.

  “Well, it was about that time. I remember because we were listening to her sing.”

  “Where?”

  “Had to be the Dream Palace. I can see it so well in my mind’s eye—that bar that ran the whole length of the room, the pinball machines. I was with Pearce and he was drunk. He started bragging about being with her. Then he turned up later as Geoff’s friend—from that computer network.”

  “The TOWN. Are you on it?”

  “Hell, no, I haven’t got time for something like that. I know Cole and Geoff loved it.” His voice dropped: “And Lenore, of course.”

  “How did you know Pearce in 1967?”

  “Hanging out. We sat on many a bar stool together. That was it—our whole relationship. We never called each other up, arranged to meet, anything like that. We just both used to hang.”

  “I don’t know, Butsy, you don’t impress me as much of a hanger-out.”

  Finally, at long last, he picked up the kid, not that it helped—she screamed louder than ever.

  “That was before I found Jesus.”

  This, Skip thought, would probably be a good time to leave.

  On the way to her car, it came to her how very much she didn’t want to talk to Pearce right then. She was about as out of sorts as it was possible to be, now that Caitlin’s plight had become the whipped cream on an already nightmarish night and day. She tried to shake the depression brought on by the little girl’s wails in that darkened house, her own decision to close herself off, and the hurt in her throat that decision had caused her. For Skip, that was a signal her mind was out of tune with her heart. It was the second time in an hour she’d felt it, a nail through the larynx.

  Here in Geoff’s old neighborhood, she found herself once again sitting in her car, staring out the window. If Pearce was the lover—and not Butsy—why had Marguerite lied about it? Could she still be in love with Pearce, still be seeing him?

  It was possible.

  Since Butsy only knew him casually, Marguerite probably didn’t know the two were acquainted, therefore had thought it safe to give Skip Butsy’s name. She had to know he’d deny it, but so what? He’d appear to be lying to save his ass (which might be more than simply appearance), and also, she might have some reason to frame him. Maybe his business deal with Cole hadn’t worked out.

  Pearce had never produced an alibi for the time of Geoff’s death—indeed, had implied he’d been with a lady. Since Cole had been in Baton Rouge at the time, perhaps Marguerite could alibi Pearce if need be.

  But why didn’t she marry him? Because he was already married. The reason she gave for not marrying Butsy.

  Hell. Honey Diefenthal had told her Pearce had a thing for Marguerite. His own ex-wife!

  “Listen, I was just wondering about something. Do you think Marguerite and Mike Kavanagh might have been involved before Leighton was killed?”

  Skip remembered how Honey cocked her head as she answered: “Well, I never got that impression. Honestly, I’d be more inclined to suspect Pearce of being involved with her.”

  Damn, damn and damn! All roads led to Pearce, but she didn’t have a shred of evidence on him.

  Her head hurt. She’d already searched his damn house. What was next?

  Caitlin.

  Maybe she’d go back to the office and bat around ideas with Cappello. And she could call Kit about Caitlin. Maybe there was something she could do to help her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE WOMAN WHO ANSWERED Kit’s phone pissed her off: “She’s not here.”

  Not, “I’m sorry, but she’s stepped away from her desk.” Not “Can I tell her who called.” Just four abrupt words, like she couldn’t wait to hang up and get back to goofing off.

  Skip was sufficiently irritated to pull rank. “This is Detective Skip Langdon, NOPD. Can you tell me where she is, please?”

  Long pause. “I’m sorry, Officer. I really don’t know where she is, and… well, I don’t know if…” She stopped in mid-sentence, evidently trying to decide whether to say more.

  Skip caught something in her voice that she hadn’t at first: Anxiety, she thought.

  “You sound worried.”

  “No, she has to be somewhere. She hasn’t left the building—her purse is here and all. It’s just that… she isn’t any of the places she’s supposed to be.” She caught herself. “I mean, that I’d expect her to be.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lirette.”

  “Lirette, I’m coming over. If she turns up, have her wait for me, will you?”

  Twenty minutes later, she strode into Kit’s office, finding another woman at Kit’s desk, trying, apparently, to field a phone call. “Lirette?” Skip produced her badge.

  “I’ll call you back,” Lirette said into the phone. To Skip she said, “Yes?” But her calm voice belied her harried manner. This woman was definitely alarmed, or maybe she was picking up someth
ing from Skip that Skip couldn’t yet herself identify. All she knew was her pulse was racing.

  Lirette was a good deal older than Kit or maybe she just had no use for hair coloring and fitness plans. She looked as if she could make a lot of roux-based dishes and the flakiest of pie crusts. Her gray-blue flyaway hair had the slightly crimped look of baby-fine locks that didn’t take a perm too well but looked worse without one.

  Skip said, “Kit’s not in any trouble, if you’re concerned about that.”

  “It’s not that—I’m worried, that’s all.” She repeated what she’d said on the phone. “She doesn’t seem to be anywhere she’s supposed to be.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to have a look around. Okay?”

  Lirette nodded.

  Skip stepped out of the office and back into the corridor. Things were happening too fast… first Lenore, then Marguerite’s “confession,” such as it was—bogus or not, Skip couldn’t be sure.

  And now this.

  It might be perfectly ordinary for Kit to disappear for a few minutes—perhaps she’d stolen off to have a good cry over Lenore, but every instinct in Skip’s body said that wasn’t it, that Kit was in danger, maybe already dead.

  Kit knew something. Either the killer, like Skip, had just realized it or he was systematically getting rid of anyone who knew anything about what had happened twenty-seven years ago.

  Who says you can’t rewrite history?

  Skip called Security and identified herself. “I need help finding a nurse.”

  “Well, can I ask what for?”

  “She may be in danger.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  “Look, there isn’t time for this. I need someone to help me search the hospital.”

  “Well, we don’t really have nobody right now. Gerard’s on his break and Tootie went home sick about an hour ago.”

  “How about you?”

  “I can’t leave my post… there’s nothin’ I can really do.”

  Skip hung up. Great. Just what I need right now. Bureaucracy.

  She felt time running out.

  Barely thinking, driven by anxiety and adrenaline, she started walking, striding down the hospital corridors as if she were a nurse en route to a code.