Dead by Any Other Name (11 page)

twenty-seven

I left Albany and
headed for Phoenicia. I needed to go back to Natasha's house, to see if there was anything I'd missed, any clue that would lead me deeper into her life and psyche, help me piece together the last months—and particularly the last night—of her life.

I parked on Phoenicia's main drag and tried to look casual as I sauntered up Natasha's street, all the while scanning to make sure I wasn't seen. I reached her bungalow and walked into its overgrown front yard like I belonged there. The front door was locked so I slipped in through the porch window again.

It was late afternoon and the living room was eerie in the dim filtered light, nothing had been moved, nothing changed—a wave of sadness swept over me, for Natasha, for all the hurt in the world.

But I had work to do.

I began a methodical search, looking under cushions, through closets, in corners and crannies. The living room yielded zip. There was a small dining area and I noticed a laptop in its case on the floor beside a cabinet—
that
was coming with me. I hit the kitchen, it looked like Natasha was a vegetarian but that was all I learned. There was a small pantry and I opened all the drawers and looked behind the cans of soup and boxes of oatmeal. Then I noticed a cookie tin on the top shelf. I pulled a chair into the pantry, stood on it and picked up the box. It rattled. I stepped down and opened it—a half dozen pill vials. Each contained a different pill. None of them had prescription labels. I took two pills from each vial, slipped them into a small baggie and then into my bag and replaced the tin.

I moved into the bedroom and noticed a bookshelf with a row of about a half dozen photo albums. I sat on the bed and leafed through them. They were in chronological order, starting when Natasha was about fourteen, the early pictures taken at what was obviously her boarding school. She was exuberant in some shots, hamming for the camera, hanging on friends, singing; in other shots she looked moody and troubled. Tellingly, there were few pictures of her parents or sister. The last album was filled with pictures of her life in Phoenicia: Natasha with Billie, singing in small clubs, playing in the snow.

Then at the end of the album I came to a manila envelope. Written on the front was: “Natasha—Here they are. Burn them. I am so sorry. I love you—P.” I opened the envelope and took out a small pile of photographs. The first was a nude of Natasha taken on a large sleigh bed, a fetching shot of her on her side, propped on pillows, her body pale and voluptuous, her expression play-
ful, teasing, seductive. In the pictures that followed she begins
to look high on something—some downer with aphrodisiac properties, her poses increasingly explicit, her hair disheveled, her body flushed, her eyes hooded and filled with something more dangerous, yearning and sadness, a lost child playing a grown-up game.

Then I came to the nudes of Pavel in all his considerable glory, sprawled out on the same bed, looking straight into the lens with a beckoning satyr smile—there was nothing playful in his eyes, his sexual confidence was frightening—the man was pure sex, male sex, ruthless and insistent.

Then I came to the shots of them together, clearly taken the same day. The pictures were disturbing because in them they weren't making love, they were having sex, raw sex, you could almost smell the long afternoon of lust, sweat, commingled juices, in some shots their bodies were clearly posed, it was a performance directed by the photographer—whoever that was—Pavel's face filled with conquest and triumph, Natasha passive, groggy, drugged into submission and … was that fear I saw in her eyes? These pictures were about power, power over a vulnerable young woman.

As I put the pictures back in the envelope, the room, the world seemed very still. Natasha was unable to resist Pavel and was drawn into his heart of darkness—a kind, brave, gifted girl with a fierce core of sadness, insecurity, and self-hatred that she was constantly battling. Sometimes she won, sometimes she didn't. In the months before her death, she was losing.

I had to find out who took these shots.

Just then I heard a key in the front door. I slipped the photos into my bag, quickly replaced the albums and walked into the living room just as Sally Wolfson walked in the door. She looked
exhausted, older, no make-up, and was carrying an empty satchel.

“Oh, hello,” she said in surprise.

“Hi.”

We eyed each other.

“I didn't expect to find anyone here,” she said.

“You'll have to excuse me, I was snooping around.”

“Why?”

“I don't think your daughter's death was an accident or a suicide.”

“You mean …?”

“I think she was murdered.”

She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. Then she exhaled with a sigh and sat on the sofa. When she spoke her voice was soft, “Why do you think that?”

“Because I was with her the day she died and she didn't seem suicidal to me. I'm a former therapist so I have some training.”

She looked up at me, “But who would kill her?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out.”

“Do you have any evidence that she was murdered?”

“I'm looking.”

“The police investigated. My husband and I spoke with them. They ruled the cause of death undetermined.”

“I think they're wrong.”

She looked down at her lap for a long moment and finally looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes, “I don't know how much you know about my daughter, but she was troubled. The last few months have been very difficult for her. But at heart she was a lovely girl, as far as I know she didn't have any enemies.”

“Did you meet her current boyfriend, Pavel?”

“Yes, once. Unbelievably handsome, but a real opportunist, I didn't think he was good for Natasha. Do you think
he
killed her?”

“I don't know.”

She seemed to marshal herself, sat up straight, pushed her hair back. “As I'm sure you can imagine this has been very difficult for me and my husband. Our healing has just begun. A lot of wild speculation will only add to our pain.”

“I understand, but I can't let a murderer get away with it.”

“I appreciate your concern for Natasha. If and when you have any information to back up your theory, please contact us immediately.” She stood up. “Now I came here today to pick up some of my daughter's things, just those that have some meaning for me and Howard.”

“I'll leave you alone.”

“Thank you.”

I walked to the door and turned. “Oh, by the way, I read about your book contract.”

Her eyes opened wide for just a split second. “I suppose we seem guilty of opportunism, too. In fact, we've been writing the book for several years, and were desperately hoping for a happy ending, with Natasha successful again.” Her voice caught. “But it wasn't meant to be.”

I had a feeling there was more coming, so I waited.

“I know it might seem as if we're exploiting Natasha's death, but offers from publishers came in right away, the industry is so ruthless these days. We've turned down a dozen television requests—
60 Minutes
, Charlie Rose, Dr. Phil. It's just too soon.”

I wondered what the expiration date was on “too soon.” Another month maybe? I never quite got how people could go public with their private lives, but then again I'm not a celebrity. I think that in a funny way when you crave attention and live your life in the spotlight, you
need
it to validate your experiences, it's almost as if something hasn't really happened until you've gone public with it.

“Oh listen, Julia showed up at my shop and I gave her Natasha's jewelry. So I think we're square.”

“You
gave
her the jewelry?”

I nodded.

“Oh dear. Julia is also going through a rough patch herself. And that jewelry was my husband's and my property.”

“I realize that. But I did it. Do you want me to pay you, too?”

“No, of course not. I'm sorry for snapping. This hasn't been an easy time.”

I wanted to feel more sympathy for Sally, but there was something cold about her—she seemed genuinely upset about Natasha's death but had spoken mainly about its effect on her and her husband, had said little about Natasha, not a memory, not a word of longing or loss. The death was something that was happening to
her
, which is the classic narcissistic response.

“That's okay. Listen, please give me a call if you ever want to talk.” I handed her my card.

“Yes, and let us know if you turn up anything. If you do, we'll want to get involved, to help, to push.” She looked around the small forlorn house. “Poor Natasha.”

Sally's Mercedes was parked out front. I walked to my car and drove to the intersection of Natasha's street, where I had a view of the cottage gate. I turned on WDST and waited. About fifteen minutes later, Sally walked out, her satchel full. I pulled away and circled the block.

Then I parked, walked to Natasha's and slipped back inside. The laptop was still there. I picked it up. The place looked like it had been gone over pretty quickly; cupboards and closets were half open and disarranged, in the bedroom the photo albums were gone, in the pantry the pill tin was on a lower shelf. I opened it—empty.

twenty-eight

When I got home
I set up Natasha's laptop on the kitchen table and turned it on. That was about as far as I got, me and computers not being on the best of terms. I called Josie and filled her in.

“She may have set her computer so that she just stayed signed in. If she did, we'll be able to access her mail—no prob. If not, things are going to get more complicated. So just click on her browser.”

I did as I was told.

“What's her homepage?”

“Google.”

“Now click on gmail on the upper right—fingers crossed.”

Sure enough, Natasha's e-mail account popped up.

“Wow, that was easy. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

I methodically read all of her recent e-mails. There were very few since her death, mostly adverts and offers. In the weeks before her death there were short messages from her friend Vondra in LA on the mechanics of her move and general gossip, and from several people in the music business who she was connecting with as she prepared to move. There was nothing from Clark Van Wyck or Kelly, but they were probably too discreet to use e-mail. There were several from Pavel, including this one sent a week before her death:

“Baby—I am SO sorry for what happen yesterday. Pls forgive Pavel, he loves you.”

That must refer to the photos.

Scrolling down to a couple of weeks earlier, there was this one from Pavel:

“I have more of what you want, see you later. I love you love you—P”

‘More of what you want'? Could that be the pills? Was Pavel her pill connection?

Then I read a series of e-mails from Sally Wolfson that had come in during the last month of Natasha's life:

“Darling Tosh-Tosh—I'm worried about you. Pls answer when I call. Are you all right? We want to help, pls let us in—xxoo mom.”

“Baby girl—you didn't sound like yourself on the phone yesterday. If there's ANYTHING you need, pls pls pls call us. Love you so much xxoo mom.”

“Darling girl—I know you're having a hard time right now, but please let's talk about it. CALL ME. You've gotten through worse. Be strong and know how much we love you—xxoo mom.”

This one came in just two days before Natasha's death:

“Natasha—why are you cutting us off like this? Are you definitely moving to LA? We're SO worried about you and love you so much. We want to be part of your life, my sweet-voiced angel. Sending SO much love to my cutie kitten xxoo mom.”

I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. If Pavel was Natasha's pill connection, it raised a lot of questions. Where was he getting the pills? And why was he supplying Natasha if he loved her? Why did he go along with the photo session? Was he just a psychopath or was he doing someone else's bidding?

And Sally's e-mails seemed sincere enough, but the tone and use of pet names were infantilizing and the offers of help were general and vague. You'd think a professional like Sally would supply names of doctors and therapists, and specific offers of financial help or to pay for treatment.

Natasha led a very complicated life.

And so, increasingly, did I.

twenty-nine

It was late the
next afternoon and George was sitting at my kitchen table identifying the pills I'd found at Natasha's. Afterwards we were going to head down to Mad John's—this was Goat Island night. I can't say I was looking forward to it. The theft of Indian artifacts didn't seem as important as uncovering the truth of Natasha's death, but Mad John and George were the valley's protectors and I was proud to enlist.

“This is oxycodone, which is basically heroin in pill form, I mean these suckers will turn you into a zombie.”

I thought of the explicit photographs and wondered if this was the pill Natasha was on when they were taken.

George picked up another pill, “This is Adderall, which takes you in the other direction—it's pure speed and unlike a lot of speed, it can make you
very
horny. Here we have Vicodin, a serious painkiller and downer. Two of these and you are gone for the foreseeable future. Xanax, no introduction needed, some people pop these like M&Ms, they're great for coming down from a speed run. This baby here is Ritalin, which will treat your ADHD and also turn you into a jaw-twitching paranoid speed freak. If Natasha was taking all of these she was pouring a lot of chemicals into her body, all of them reacting to each other, doing herself some serious damage. Did she seem whacked that day you met her?”

“She was emotional, high-strung, too up, but she was making sense, I didn't feel like I was talking to some drug casualty. Is it hard to get a hold of these pills?”

“It's not easy, you can get them on the street if you know where and how. Scrips are the easiest, of course, but most of these drugs are tightly controlled and monitored so doctors are very careful about over-prescribing. You don't know where Natasha was getting them?”

“I think from Pavel, but I'm not sure. I've got my work cut out for me.”

“Speaking of which, it's time for our next assignment.”