Best Friends Forever (33 page)

His face looked troubled in the glow from the dashboard. “Addie,” he said, “are you sure you’l be al right?”

“I am sure,” I said. “Sure I’m sure. I’m fine.”

“You are crying,” he observed, and ran his finger along my cheek to prove it.

“I’m fine. Thank you again,” I said, and hurried out of the car. For a minute, I thought he’d come after me, racing across the lawn and up the steps and saying, Addie, I have been a fool. Don’t leave me.

Never leave me. When I turned, I could see him in the car, behind the wheel, but couldn’t make out his expression. I unlocked the door and walked inside, and after a minute, his car slid out of the driveway. He flashed his lights, blipped the horn once. I barely slept that night, sitting up with the telephone, which, of course, didn’t ring. On Monday morning I went to the pool as usual.

“Where’s your friend?” asked the tangerine, waiting to hand me a towel from behind the check-in desk.

“I don’t know,” I said. I guessed that Vijay had found another pool. After that night in my driveway, I never saw him again.

FORTY-ONE

“Oh, no,” said Greg Levitson. “No, no, no.”

He was shaking his big bald head back and forth in time with his nos. It was Sunday morning at the TD Bank branch in downtown Pleasant Ridge, and it looked as if everyone who wasn’t in church or at the mal was waiting in line for the tel ers.

“Take

you

ten

seconds,”

Jordan

wheedled.

Greg Levitson stopped shaking his head and glared at Jordan. “I could lose my job. ”

“Sure you could,” Jordan said. “You could also lose your job if certain other facts came to light.”

Greg pursed his lips, closed his eyes, and exhaled a stream of stale coffee breath in Jordan’s direction. “You’re blackmailing me?”

“I’m doing no such thing.”

“This is unfair.”

“Nobody said life was fair,” said Jordan. He crossed his legs, ate a candy cane, and stared up at the ceiling as if he had al the time in the world.

Greg Levitson had been in Jordan’s class in high school. Back then Greg had been a slope-shouldered, pink-faced boy with a sunken chest and wide, almost womanish hips, whose brown hair was starting to recede by senior year. He’d gone to Pennsylvania for col ege, had put in a few obligatory years in the big city (in his case, Philadelphia) before returning to Pleasant Ridge with a wife and baby in tow. Greg’s and Jordan’s paths would cross occasional y

—they’d nod “hel os” in the supermarket, exchange “how’ve you beens” at the Exxon station, and that might have been the end of it, except one night Jordan had pul ed over a blue Chevrolet doing seventy-five in a fiftyfive zone, and found his former classmate trembling behind the wheel.

“Please,” Greg had whispered after handing his license and registration through the window. “Please don’t make me get out of the car.”

Jordan looked down and saw that Greg Levitson was wearing a dark-blue gown that left one of his meaty pink shoulders bare, high-heeled shoes and sheer black hose. His cheeks were rouged, and his fingernails were fire-engine red.

“You know the speed limit, right?” Jordan asked.

Greg’s chins were quivering as he spoke.

“It was a dare,” he said in a raspy voice. “I don’t do this normal y.”

“I’m going to give you a warning,” said Jordan. “No ticket this time. Just slow down.”

He handed the papers back through the window, with Greg practical y weeping in gratitude, promising that if Jordan ever needed anything…if he could ever be of service to the department…

Jordan had cal ed on him twice in the last three years, in cases where he needed finan-cial information and didn’t have—or couldn’t get—a warrant. The first time Greg had been eager to help. The second time, he’d pursed his lips until they looked like the knot at the bottom of a big white bal oon. Now it looked like he was prepared to dig in his heels—his high heels, Jordan thought, and smiled to himself. “You look good,”

Jordan offered, helping himself to a second miniature candy cane from the bowl on the desk. “You lose a few pounds?”

Greg puffed out his lips. “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate what you did for me, but this…I just can’t…”

“Or maybe it’s your shirt,” said Jordan, eyeing the other man’s button-down. “I think blue is your color.”

“Fine.” Greg leaned forward and worked his thick fingers over the keyboard. “Valerie Adler. I got nothing. She must bank somewhere else.” Jordan sat back, silent, waiting.

“Adelaide

Downs,

Fourteen

Crescent Drive. Recent activity: we’ve got an

eighty-seven

dol ar

payment

to

FreshDirect. Nineteen dol ars to Netflix.”

Greg waved his fingers, jazz-hands style.

“Ooh, suspicious.”

“Keep going,” Jordan said.

“Visa, three hundred and nineteen dol ars. Lakeshore Athletic Club, a hundred and ninety-nine. That’s a recurring payment. Um.” Greg leaned forward and closed his mouth.

“She took out ten thousand dol ars in cash yesterday.”

“Ten thousand dol ars,” Jordan repeated.

“Not here, though. Branch number 1119…” He leaned closer to his computer, tapping away. “That’s in St. Louis.”

“She just went in and took out ten thousand dol ars in cash?”

“She had plenty in her account. She’s got, like, sixty thousand bucks in checking, another forty in savings…” Greg shut his mouth, perhaps realizing he’d said too much.

“Ten thousand dol ars,” Jordan repeated.

“And there’s one more charge. A gas station

in…”

He

paused,

squinting.

“Nashvil e.”

Heading south, thought Jordan, writing it down. “You should go now,” said Greg.

“I’m gone,” Jordan said, getting to his feet.

“You have the thanks of a grateful nation.”

Greg looked surprised. “This is a national matter?”

“International,” said Jordan. “Extremely important. Very hush-hush.”

“You’re

welcome.

Oh,

and

congratulations,” Greg said.

Jordan paused, his hand on the door.

“What’s that?”

“Your little girl. I saw your wife at the Whole Foods…” He must have also seen something in Jordan’s expression, because he shut his mouth fast.

“We’ve been divorced for a year and a half,” Jordan said. “Patti’s remarried.”

“Oh,” said Greg. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Little girl? “Stay safe,” said Jordan, pushing the new information to the back of his mind.

“Wil do,” said Greg. “Hey, I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine,” said Jordan, and then repeated the words, as if he was trying to convince himself. “It’s fine.”

FORTY-TWO

Jordan drove back to the station, fighting the impulse to cal Patti, or her mother, or her sister, or Rob Fine, DDS, or just turn the car around and drive to their house and get to the bottom of this. Had Patti final y had a baby? Had they adopted? Hired a surrogate?

Never mind, he thought, swinging into his parking spot, feeling the new knowledge settling in like an infection. Focus. Gary Ryderdahl was at his desk. “What’ve you got, chief?” Gary cal ed.

“Maybe something.” Jordan sat down in Hol y’s chair and wheeled it to the room’s far wal

, where he paused, pul ing himself back and forth with his toes.

Gary’s face lit up. “Do it,” he said.

“You’re a bad influence,” said Jordan.

“Aw, c’mon, Chief, nobody’s gonna see.”

Jordan shrugged. Maybe it would cheer him up. He looked left, then right, then pushed off from the wal and spun down the length of the room, rol ing to a neat stop in front of Gary’s desk.

Gary high-fived him. “How do you do it? Every time I try I hit the wal .”

“Years of practice,” Jordan said, forcing himself to sound casual. “Listen. Adelaide Downs took out ten thousand dol ars in cash in St. Louis. There was a gas station charge in Nashvil e. What does that tel you?”

Gary rubbed his hair. “Um. She’s gone country?”

Jordan waited patiently. When Gary looked blank, he said, “Tel me what we know for sure.”

“That she has money. That she was in St. Louis and Nashvil e.”

“She had money,” Jordan corrected. “It could be gone, and she could be anywhere by now. Why don’t you start cal ing hotels in Nashvil e? See if any of them have two women registered

as

Valerie

Adler

and

Addie

Downs, or two women who sound like they fit the description.”

Gary thought this over and final y asked,

“What’s the description?”

“Early thirties,” said Jordan. “Blond hair. No southern accents. Maybe driving an old station wagon with Il inois plates. You can find Val’s picture on her station’s website.”

Gary nodded. “One more thing,” he said.

“Hol y and I were doing a…” Jordan looked at him sternly. Gary flinched and swal owed.

“We were searching on the Internet, and every year, Addie Downs donates a painting to this auction that raises money for cancer research.”

Jordan shrugged. That didn’t mean much, other than that his suspect was charityminded.

“I had a hunch,” Gary continued. “Hol y cal ed the doctor who runs the auction. Dr. Elizabeth Shoup. She’s an oncologist. Hol y said she was Adelaide Downs’s assistant and that she was cal ing to confirm her next appointment.” Gary was so flushed with pleasure that he was practical y glowing.

“And guess what?”

“She’s got an appointment?”

Gary’s face fel . “Next Thursday. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” said Jordan, and patted the other man’s shoulder.

“I’l get started on the hotels.”

“Sounds good,” said Jordan. He walked into his office and closed the door behind him, savoring the quiet. Hol y was off interviewing the half-dozen salespeople and suppliers Dan had tangled with during his tenure at Swansea Toyota, including the garbageman whose throat Dan had

threatened to slit with a box cutter if his crew kept leaving empty soda cans on the curb, and the Parts and Repairs receptionist who’d told Hol y confidential y that Dan had gotten fresh with her at the dealership’s Christmas party last year. The police station, which occupied the ground floor of Pleasant Ridge’s municipal building (Parks and Rec had the second floor) was too warm, as usual, and fil ed with the smel of coffee and the ghost of a departed meat-bal sub. Through his window, Jordan could see Gary hunched over his desk, poking at his keyboard as if it were the corpse of an animal he wasn’t entirely sure was dead. Jordan checked his notes, lifted his phone, dialed information, and was eventual y connected with the Lakeshore Athletic Club, which, a mel ow recorded voice informed him, was the Midwest’s premiere facility for fitness, relaxation, and rejuvenation. Jesus. Jordan hit zero until he was connected to a human being, then suffered through five minutes of wind chimes and gongs that he supposed were someone’s idea of music until he was final y put through to a manager.

“Good afternoon, ” said a man with a high, enthusiastic voice. “This is Max, how can I help you?”

“Hi,” Jordan said to the man. “My name’s Sam Novick.” Sam, whose name Jordan borrowed occasional y, worked as an engineer specializing in adhesives, an occupation that caused fol ow-up questions to wither and die on the inquisitor’s lips. “I just moved to the area.

My sister-in-law Addie Downs is a member of your gym.”

No hesitation at al . “Oh, Addie! How is she?”

“She’s great.”

“She looks fan tas tic,” the manager said.

“She’s one of our biggest success stories, you know.”

“She is something,” said Jordan. “Listen, I wanted to set up an appointment, see if I could come and maybe take a tour or something.”

“Of course,” said the man, with visions of commissions probably dancing in his head.

“Are you familiar with the facility? We have a state-of-the-art track, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a hot-yoga studio, two aerobic rooms, a basketbal court, a rockclimbing wal , and a five-thousand-foot spa with three wet rooms. We offer a variety of group classes as wel as individual training, in addition to yoga, Pilates, Yogalates, spinning, suspension training, coached treadmil workouts, salsa dance, strip aerobics…”

“Any joggling?” Jordan asked.

“ O f course, ” the man said again. “Have you tried it? A maz ing upper-body workout.”

“Did Addie do that?”

“Oh, no. Addie swims. That’s al I’ve ever seen her do. I tel her she should be crosstrain-ing, you know, mixing it up a bit. But we just can’t get her out of the water. She’s here five days a week, like clockwork.”

“Wow.” Jordan chuckled. “I don’t know if I’m going to be quite as dedicated as that.”

“Tel you what, Sam. I can give you a week to try the club out for free. Come on down, take a few classes, see how you like it.”

“Good deal.” Jordan thanked the man, hung up the phone, and slipped out of his office, past the little Christmas tree that Hol y had bought and trimmed, and unlocked the door at the back of the room that connected the officers’ workspace to Pleasant Ridge’s three-cel jail.

Two of the cel s were just normal, nine-by-nine, with a metal bunk and a sink and a seatless metal toilet. The third cel was bigger, with a wider door and a lower sink. Handicapped-accessible, per federal regulations, in case any of Pleasant Ridge’s badasses used wheelchairs. Jordan unlocked the door and sat down crosslegged on the flimsy mattress, pushed the question of his ex-wife’s new daughter out of his mind, and considered Adelaide Downs. He thought of the photograph he’d seen in her brother’s room, a woman for whom the words “ordinary” and “regular” must once have seemed like a dream. But Addie had reinven-ted herself. She was normal now, a woman you wouldn’t necessarily notice or look at twice.

She wasn’t huge. She wasn’t even brunette. She was possibly sick…or maybe she’d been sick and was going in for a checkup. Maybe she’d faced her own mortality and decided to change her life. Which made her capable of what, exactly?

Jordan sat on the bunk bed, perfectly stil . Addie,

Addie,

Addie,

he

thought,