Follow Her Home (2 page)

She had been clinically depressed for decades. When he was a toddler, Luke asked her for a baby brother and she broke down sobbing. That was one of his earliest memories. Like a Fitzgerald heroine, Erin was frail and neurotic with a penchant for woeful melodrama. But this was her disease—there was no play-acting element to it.

She tried to kill herself just days before Luke's tenth birthday. He heard the reason from his mother's mouth, hours after she recovered—his father had been unfaithful. Luke was young enough to pretend he didn't understand, and she didn't bring it up again. He never did find out if it was true, and he didn't dwell on the question.

If Mr. Cook had transgressed, he was a model husband and father in the years before and after. He was the central figure in Luke's family life, and I knew Luke's casual intimation of an affair came from a place of genuine agony. I grabbed him by the elbow and we peeled off from the party into his bedroom. I closed the door, and the music reached us more in throbs than in sounds.

Luke had been living at the Marlowe for all of one week. While he had managed to slap up enough house for a housewarming, he had yet to settle into his bedroom. A new queen bed sat kitty-corner from the door, his disheveled comforter spread across it end to end in an homage to a made bed. The only other furniture was a bare, L-shaped desk and a rolling desk chair, both new. The carpet was littered with poster tubes, a framed diploma, cardboard boxes in various sizes, taped and untaped, some open showing white plastic hangers, a baseball glove, books with worn covers. I could only imagine the state of his closet.

He sat on a corner of his bed, palms flat and pushing into the mattress. I took the chair and rolled it close. I crossed and uncrossed my legs four times in the silence that followed.

I clucked my tongue. “Talk to me.”

“I went home for dinner today and mentioned to my dad that I was short on cash. He said he'd give me whatever was in his wallet, and I don't know if I should have, but I took that to mean I could help myself. When I did, I found a receipt. Chanel, three grand, dated last week.” He leaned forward, fingers locked, and looked up at me, chewing on his lower lip.

I could read the distress clear as lettering on his face. Luke looked up to his father with a childlike devotion, and for the first time since I'd known him, it was being tested. I felt a flush of relief. He was waiting for me to speak, and I gathered from his silence that there had been no further discoveries. If this was his evidence, there were a hundred ways for his suspicions to be wrong. “And you think this means your dad is having an affair?”

He nodded, slowly, evaluating my response.

“Your dad makes millions a year. You don't think he was just shopping for himself?”

“I know my dad,” he said. “He doesn't spend that kind of money on anything for himself unless it comes with wheels. And Chanel? Not the brand for an aging lawyer.”

“So you think he was buying something for Lori. Not, say, your mom?”

“There's no occasion, and I mean, he isn't really spontaneous with the gifts. My mom hates surprises, even when they're expensive.”

“He could've been picking something up for her. Or something. I guess it's weird, but I think you're being a little paranoid, no? It's a receipt. People buy things.”

He scratched his nose with a fast knuckle. “I don't know. I just have this feeling that that's what's going on. Did you happen to notice what was on Lori's arm?”

“An arsenal of bangles, but other than that, no.”

“You would've noticed. She must've put it down. Any guesses?”

“I'm going to guess there were some linking
C
s involved.”

“Could easily have been three grand worth. I mean, a pair of Chanel socks goes for what, a thousand dollars?”

“Give or take.”

“I wouldn't have noticed, but it just makes so much sense. How else do you explain it? She can't make more than a few thousand a month.”

“Maybe she has a rich boyfriend. One who isn't about to die.” I paused and opened my mouth. “Sorry. It's just, she's a total knockout. She could be on Nickelodeon, dating a boy who wears bow ties.”

“Please, Song. I can't kick this feeling that something's wrong. I'm just asking you to help me find out.”

“Why,” I started. “Has your dad been acting weird lately? I don't get where this is coming from.”

“No, nothing like that. I mean, I don't see him enough to notice strange behavior.” He stood up and started to pace. “But you know, it's an anxiety I've had since I was a kid. On the one hand, I tell myself he would never have an affair, not after my mom took those pills. On the other—it'd be so easy for him to fall into one. He has money, and status, and he's in good shape for his age. I'm sure women don't ignore him. And look.” He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. When he spoke again his voice was lower. “My mom is a handful, and he would never say it but she must make him miserable sometimes. He might love her anyway, but I doubt they've had sex in the last several years.”

“You mean you wouldn't blame him if he did have an affair?”

“No, of course I would. My mom is ill. Last time she thought he cheated, she tried to die. I know that wasn't a reasonable response, and I know my mom is a difficult person to live with. But my dad is who he is because for thirty years he's stood by her and taken care of her when most people would've quit. If he's sleeping with someone younger than I am, I'll never see him the same way again.”

He was just short of breaking into a paranoid sweat. I leaned forward with my head in my hands, looking down at my elbows. “Do you remember when you thought Diego was cheating on me?”

He sighed. “I remember. Not my best moment.”

“Well, at the time you had enough to go on that jumping to conclusions didn't seem crazy. Diego and I had kind of a big fight because I ended up getting suspicious and asked him about it.”

“Yeah, that was my bad. Sorry.”

“Ancient history. But my point is, people look weird and suspicious all the time, even people as virtuous as Diego. And when they do things that make you look sideways, logical explanations can be counterintuitive. Let's say your dad went and bought boxes of nail polish for charity. It'd be pretty bizarre, but it would still be an explanation. Honestly, it's at least as likely as what you're thinking. You have to admit, an affair requires something of a leap. Your dad and Lori just don't seem plausible.”

He rubbed his nose with the back of a hand so that his voice had to tumble through his wrist. “I don't know, Song. If ‘plausible' means ‘capable of happening,' you of all people should know that it is.”

I felt a sting of irritation in my sinuses. I stood up, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in my skirt, and glared down at my best friend, whose eyes rested on blank wall. “I'm going to let that slide because you're obviously distressed, but if you're referring to what happened to Iris, then you can cry on someone else's fucking shoulder.”

He touched my hand and threw me a pleading look. “Sorry, Song, that was out of line. I just want you to help me out here.” I kept my eyes on his and felt their white films shudder with heat. He squeezed my fingers and didn't look away. “Song, forgive me. Please.”

I blinked. “Is that why you asked me? Because you knew I couldn't say no?”

“Look, I—of course I thought about Iris. I would be lying, and you would know it if I said otherwise.”

I nodded, and felt my anger subside with a degree of surprise—it was rare for me to lash out at Luke, and I was dismayed by the rawness of that eight-year-old wound.

“I know you don't like talking about what happened, and I promise you that this is not about Iris. I just know you might have a knack for figuring this sort of thing out. You did it before, and no matter what you think, it was the right thing to do.” He waited for me to speak, but I let him continue. “But more than that, I'm asking because you're my best friend and I need your help.”

He looked abandoned. I felt my shoulders relax and after a moment I clapped my hand on his. “Okay,” I said. “Look, did you think Lori was trouble before she showed up tonight?”

He squeezed my hand and straightened his back. “Yes, yes I did. Diego told me she was all over his bones at a happy hour the other week.”

“Diego did not say that. Does she know he's married?”

“Maybe he didn't use those words, but she made him uncomfortable. In any case, if she didn't know he was married then, she sure does now. One of the other associates practically pried her off of him with a spatula and told her. After which she went right back to humping his leg.”

“I'll ask Diego about her if you don't want him privy to your theories. My hunch is that she's just a touchy girl, though.” I showed him the plum-colored lip print on my hand. “Unless I made her fall for me already.”

“Could you do that? I mean, you can tell him why, but he'll definitely think I'm nuts.”

“At least you're a little bit self-aware.” I rubbed my temples with the meat of my palms. “Sure, I'll ask him. But let's keep this realistic. I can't bug your dad's phone. I can pry around, but anything else is pretty out of my league.”

“Of course. Maybe you could talk to Diego and chat up Lori? She seems to like you.”

“I'll do what I can, okay? Lucky for you, I like the idea of posing as a dick.”

I got up and rejoined the party, leaving Luke to untangle the tubes of his bothered brain.

 

Two

I was thirteen when I first read
The Big Sleep
. I was smitten. It was my introduction to Marlowe, to hard-boiled detective fiction, to the very notion of noir, and I could not get enough. As I grew my last three inches, I went from book to book, consuming everything that was Philip Marlowe. I savored his words, studied his manners and methods. I carried him with me like an idol. Marlowe, the honorable, lonely detective—he was my hero, and playing his part appealed to me, as Luke knew it would.

I had a job and a client. That meant something. When Marlowe took on a case, it was a matter of pride. He never gave up until he turned over answers, whether his client wanted them or not. I was no Marlowe, and Luke no violet-eyed knockout, but he was someone I wanted to help. There were only a few of those left.

I felt optimistic. When I set out to deal with what happened to Iris, I didn't mean to uncover a trail, had no intention of solving a mystery. It was only after I started that there was a mystery at all. And then, I was starting with a harsh truth. There were papers, rides to the doctor, my sister, drawn in the face and holding her flat belly, scarred on the inside. Luke had a receipt, a handbag, and a man's intuition. I had every reason to expect innocuous results.

I had no game plan, but Marlowe never did, either. By the time he took three steps, he would face a whole new path, an unforeseen story. The first step, though, was always straightforward. A lead, a person to question. I had two. I scoped the room, but there was no sign of Diego. That left Lori.

I found her sitting on Luke's couch, knees knocked together and feet apart, toes pointing in. My eyes went straight to her hands—she was holding the Chanel.

It was an evening purse, a domed clutch in gleaming black with metallic undertones, about the size and shape of the top half of a football, wide at the bottom and tapering up to a clean ridge with a shiny silver clasp of interlocking
C
s. Luke was right about one thing—the purse matched her dress a sight more than it did her salary.

She held it open, and it took me a few seconds to notice that she was fishing out her car keys. I bolted over to the couch and plopped down next to her.

“I hope you're not planning to use those.” I pushed out an open palm. “I need them, is all,” I said. It was worth a try. “They're mine.”

Her eyes widened slight and sudden like the bellies of two fish inhaling. “I'm—I'm so sorry!” The keys fell to the carpet with a jingle of tiny bells attached to a jeweled charm of a winking monkey in a sailor cap, holding a tiny green banana in its tiny humanoid fingers. Her head dropped heavily as she darted to pick them up, but her hand stopped short of the floor. I stooped down on my heels and swiped them.

“I got it. Thanks.”

She went back to peering into the little Chanel, which now held only a bullet-shaped lipstick and a cell phone in a hard magenta shell. She looked up at no one in particular with knit brows and parted lips. “Have you seen my keys?”

“Are you leaving?”

“I have to be home by midnight.” Textbook drunk driver, down to the slurred speech.

“You're tossed, babe.”

“Like salad?” Her brows sat on her eyelids. “I'm not salad.”

I almost smiled. “You're drunk.”

“I have to go home,” she whined.

Luke's request reflected itself in the dark gunmetal sheen of her clutch. “Where do you live? I'm leaving in a minute.”

“But my car.”

“You got a ride here, remember?”

“I did not.”

“Don't worry about it.” She was concentrating. I wasn't above enjoying it. “Where do you live? I'll take you.”

She mumbled some half words in protest, but finally gave me an address: 432 South Citrus Avenue. Between Fourth and Sixth near Highland, an easy three-minute drive through Hancock Park.

“Don't forget your hat.” I watched as her hands darted to the sides of her head in panic, feeling for a phantom brim. “I'm messing with you. Seriously, you were going to drive?”

“Have to be home.” She extended a hand up toward me, her head drooping, her eyes doing their best to touch the ceiling. I took it and pulled her up, angelically light despite her rag-doll posture. I breathed relief that she was able to stand on her own. I was feeling gallant enough without having to carry the two of us back to my car.