Into the Dark (28 page)

“
You’re fired
.”

“What?”

“
You’re fired, you mental freak!
”

Click.

Should have run a background check.
Brenna kept driving. “I’m finding her anyway,” she whispered. “I’m finding Lula Belle.”
She clutched the steering wheel and stared out through the windshield. “But first,”
she said, “I’m finding RJ.”

D
eeDee’s view was spectacular. Of course it was. Gary paid the rent and it was astronomical.
Three years ago, when she’d left L.A. on his suggestion and found this place, Gary
had considered it a small price to pay for her continued silence about the evening
they’d spent together—an evening he remembered very little of, to be honest, blacked
out as he’d been from Scotch. He never drank.

A year later, when, after buying the Bat Phone just for emergencies, he’d found himself
calling this girl and confiding in her on a regular basis—about his money problems,
his career troubles, his hopes and fears and finally, his past—Gary had thought of
the rent as therapy money. And once DeeDee had begun telling him, “I’ll do anything
for you,” and
proving
it . . . (He wasn’t exactly sure how she was proving it, mind you, but he sure as
hell hadn’t heard from RJ Tannenbaum again, which said something.) Well, Gary kept
depositing the checks. Enough said.

But now . . .

Now as Gary stood on DeeDee’s balcony, the wind biting his face as he watched puffy
Christmas clouds swirling over the East River, Gary could only think of the havoc
DeeDee Walsh had wreaked on his life, financially, emotionally, spiritually.

She loved him, for all his flaws. Supported him through every bad thing he did, knew
his darkest secrets and still hung on, hung on to him tight, even when he knocked
her to the ground. She hung on to him and kept him afloat when it would have been
so much better if she’d just let him sink, so much better for them both.

DeeDee. His girl. His poor, misguided girl.
Did you give away our secrets, DeeDee? Did you find a confidant of your own?

Shane Smith. Good-looking kid. Took a seminar on working with child actors Gary had
taught as a guest lecturer. He’d asked lots of questions.
To be young again
, Gary had thought. Gary, who had once been very much like Shane. Same swagger, same
grin. Ready to take over the world . . .
We can beat that Murder Mile, baby. We can beat it straight to death.

Once, Shane had stayed after class as Gary collected his things, waiting with that
smile on his face, like they had a shared secret. “My girlfriend used to be a client
of yours as a kid,” Shane had told him. “DeeDee Walsh. Do you remember her?”

Gary, who hadn’t remembered her at all, had said, “Sure. DeeDee. Of course.”

“She talks about you all the time.”

“She does?”

“Says you are the most gifted man she’s ever met.”

“No kidding.”

“Uh-huh. To tell you the truth, I’m a little jealous.”

“What’s she doing now? Still acting?”

“Trying. She’s gorgeous. All she needs is a break. For now, she’s waiting tables at
Barney’s Beanery.”

And who could blame a man for going out to dinner on his own, just once? Who could
blame him, if his wife and kids were out of town and he couldn’t cook worth a damn,
to grab a burger at Barney’s Beanery, where he hadn’t eaten since . . . man . . .
since back when he was Shane’s age . . .

I
t had been three years since that one night out, but it may as well have been thirty.
Gary felt so old, so tired. The walls in the apartment were lined with black and white
head shots of DeeDee—or Diandra Marie, as she was now known. In one, she was wearing
glasses and a high-buttoned shirt. In another, she had wet lips and hair, her shoulders
bare . . . What kind of road was it that brought him here to this overpriced actress
pad, this grown-up playhouse, when less than forty-eight hours ago he was sitting
in his kitchen in Pasadena, Hannah complaining to him about the Tooth Fairy?

DeeDee was at her regular job right now—waiting tables at a place called Harry’s Hamburger
in the theater district, which wasn’t really all that different a name from Barney’s
Beanery when you thought about it.
You get some rest
, she had told Gary in that practiced, breathy voice of hers as she headed out the
door.
I’ll be home before you know it
.

For the life of him, he still couldn’t remember her as a client. Of course he had
no desire to try.

DeeDee had been working that Harry’s Hamburger job since she moved here, taking a
brief hiatus to become one of Errol’s Angels and spy on Ludlow. Gary wondered what
DeeDee’s coworkers at Harry’s thought of this showplace their fellow waitress lived
in.
Sugar daddy
. They had to think that, right? He wondered if DeeDee had told
them
about him, too.

She’d told Shane about him, after all.
Shane Smith—
Spector had named him, over the phone. And if ever a name could knock a man down . . .

The Bat Phone was in his jacket pocket. He grabbed it, called DeeDee’s cell. She answered
after the first ring. “Hello?” Gary heard restaurant noise in the background—the hum
of voices, pop music, a baby crying . . . which made him think of Hannah.

His brain was thick and foggy, headache settling in. Scotch and hangover fighting
it out in his skull.
A battle royal, to be sure
. “What’s going on between you and Shane Smith?” he said.

He thought he might have heard a gasp. “Uh . . . let me take this outside.”

“Take it wherever you want,” he said. “But you’d better tell me the truth.”

As she hurried to find a quiet place, Gary could hear DeeDee panting into the receiver.
He could almost feel her trembling. She was such a kid, really, and for a moment,
he felt sorry for her. His half-full glass of Scotch was on the living room table.
He took another swig, felt the strength of the burn, the softness in his chest dissipating.

“What are you talking about?” DeeDee said now.

“Brenna Spector was asking me about you, RJ Tannenbaum, and Shane Smith,” he said.
“What does Shane Smith have to do with anything?”

“How should I know?”

“
Don’t take that tone with me
.”

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I . . . I used to date him back in L.A. But he means
nothing to me.”

“I don’t give a damn what he means to you, DeeDee,” he said. “I want to know what
he
knows
. I want to know what you told him.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Well, why did Brenna Spector—”

“Maybe RJ told him something, before . . . you know. They were friends back in film
school for a while.”

“Have you been in touch with Shane since you’ve been in New York?”

She gulped air. “You don’t have to worry about him. I swear that on my life.”

“DeeDee?”

“Yes . . .”

“Do you know anything about Lula Belle that you’re not telling me?”

“No.”

“Does Shane know about Lula Belle?”

“
No
,” she said. “If he did, I would have found her for you.”

“
So you have been in touch with him, liar!
”

She was crying now. At work, which wasn’t a good thing. Gary couldn’t risk another
scene. He needed to lay off the alcohol, stop feeling sorry for himself, get his head
back together . . . He thought of the way he’d spoken to Brenna Spector over the phone.
He heard his own voice in his head—like those drunk Mel Gibson tapes people were making
ringtones out of. He cringed.

That wasn’t him. Talking like that. To her
sister
. That wasn’t Gary Freeman, whom everyone liked. And now he’d gone and done it. Raised
red flags in Brenna Spector’s mind, and she’s an investigator. With perfect memory.
She’d remember that rant always—his anger over RJ Tannenbaum.
The way he’d exploded at her when she’d asked about the phone calls—but he couldn’t
help it. He’d remembered those calls, RJ saying her name—The Shadow’s real name—saying
it to Gary over and over again, RJ flinging open that door in Gary’s mind with his
questions, breaking the lock, destroying Gary’s life. . . . Four phone calls, each
one more unbearable than the last. He had to be stopped. But would Brenna understand
that? No. She would never understand.

And soon she’d find out what Tannenbaum was working on and then what happened to him
and she would put two and two together . . .

Her sister
.

God. If she found out . . . If Brenna found out, Gary would never get his life back
again. The door would fly off its hinges, shattering everything. He would lose his
clients, his reputation. His family—whom he loved more than anything—he would never
be able to get them back.

He would be alone forever. Alone with his own, ugly past.

Why had Gary ever contacted Ludlow? Why had he thought that involving Brenna Spector
would be a good idea?

Gary thought about calling Brenna back, apologizing. But what could he say? The horse
had been let out of the barn, as they say. The damage had been done, and the only
damage control he could hope for in the world was on the phone with him right now.
Crying.

Calm, calm
, he told himself.

DeeDee gasped, “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Gary took a deep, cleansing breath. His lungs puffed full of air, and then drained
themselves—slowly, fully, until he truly felt clean. He heard himself say, “You’re
as special a woman as I’ve ever met.”

She stopped. “I am?”

He took a cleansing breath. “I love you, DeeDee,” he said. “More than anyone.”

“Oh, me too, Mr. Freeman. I love you so much.”

“Can you help me, DeeDee?” he said. “Can you help me one more time?”

“Yes,” she said. Just like that. No questions asked, pure and unconditional, which
was the very nature of love, wasn’t it? Without another word, she listened as Gary
spoke to her about Brenna Spector, relaying their conversation, voicing his concerns.

Chapter 22

“F
ound something!” Danny Cavanaugh called out. Brenna and Nick looked at each other.
They’d been on every floor of this decrepit building, working their way from the ground
floor up, until this one, floor seven. It seemed as though someone had started to
knock the place down, but had given up on it, leaving the rare visitor to navigate
around piles of bricks and debris, on floors that were falling apart to begin with.
In certain spots, you could see straight through to the support beams. Treacherous.
Brenna couldn’t believe the elevators still worked.

The ventilation system, on the other hand . . . As cold as it was in here, the whole
building had a smell to it that seeped into your pores. No wonder Orion preferred
to take his chances outside. This wasn’t a place to squat in, even if you were desperate.

“You think Danny really did find something this time?” Brenna said.

Morasco shrugged. “He is a little quick to cry wolf.”

An understatement. On the sixth floor, Danny had called everyone into a rank little
room, right next to the staircase—only to find, behind a crumbling wall, what turned
out to be a dead coyote. On the third floor, it had been a couple of dead crows. On
the first, a good-sized pile of animal waste.
What now
, Brenna thought, as everyone hurried down to the end of the floor, to a room with
no door on it, Danny standing there, perfectly still in his regulation blue coat and
his protective mask, pointing at a tarp in the corner of the room as though it were
Scrooge’s grave, he the Ghost of Christmas Future.

For a split second, Brenna thought it was another false alarm. But then the smell
came barreling at her, and one of the uniforms pulled back part of the tarp and she
saw it. A leg, in jeans. A blue Nike with a white stripe—the exact same kind of shoe
Spielberg had been wearing in the picture next to RJ’s mirror. The uniforms yanked
off the rest of the tarp, revealing what was beneath. The body. Brenna saw dark blue
skin. She saw black, caked blood, a shattered face. She had to turn away, not because
the sight nauseated her, but because of Hildy—Hildy’s big sad eyes in her head, Hildy’s
frail voice . . .

Robbie’s hurt me plenty, but I don’t want to make him disappear. He’s my boy. I want
him back.

Her only son. Her only child. “I’m so sorry,” Brenna whispered, remembering Hildy
in her apartment, her curled, hard little back beneath her hands as she hugged her.
So frail and brittle Hildy was, and this would destroy her, Brenna knew. Brenna had
one child, too, and so she knew. This would turn her to dust.

She could hear Wayne Cavanaugh, calling the medical examiner’s office, and then she
heard her own name. She turned to see Morasco, standing near the body, beckoning to
her.

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“No,” he said. “Look at this.”

She moved over to where he was standing—just a foot away from the body. He removed
surgical gloves from his pocket, put one on, and picked it up off the ground—a glittering
chain. “What did you say her name was, again? The girl who drugged Trent and Ludlow?
The one who dresses like a cartoon on a cocktail napkin?”

“I never told you her name,” Brenna said. “It’s actually Diandra.”

“We should probably find a last name for her,” Morasco said.

“Why?” Brenna moved closer, as he held the chain up and she saw the pendant at the
end. It was a tiny silver D.

H
ildy agreed to come to the Westchester County morgue and identify her son’s body.
Brenna waited in the lobby for her with Morasco, that pendant filling her thoughts.
“I’ve got to find her,” she said.

“Diandra.”

“Yes.”

“You think she killed RJ Tannenbaum, as well as Ludlow,” Morasco said.

She shook her head. “Diandra killed Ludlow and tried to kill Trent,” she said. “But
I don’t think she killed RJ. I think Shane Smith shot him in the head while she looked
on approvingly.”

“Why?”

“Shooting isn’t her MO,” she said. “If she was the one who’d killed RJ, his pants
would have been around his ankles and his face would have been in one piece—probably
still smiling.”

“No,” Morasco said. “I mean, why do you think RJ was killed?”

“I’m not sure,” Brenna said. “But I bet Diandra could tell me.”

“Hello, Brenna.” It was Hildy Tannenbaum, standing over her, Pokrovsky looming behind
her.

“Hildy.” Brenna stood up and hugged her, flashing back as she did to two days ago,
just two days ago in Hildy’s apartment, hugging her good-bye, this tiny woman with
the curled turtle shell back, this woman with a missing child—distant and cold as
he was, behind his locked bedroom door with his typed, formal note good-bye, he was
still her child.
“I want to help you,” Brenna says, Hildy’s wig stiff beneath her chin. And she does,
so very much. She wants to help them both . . .

Brenna came back to the present, hugging Hildy again over her son, her dead son, dead
two days ago and two months ago, without anyone knowing. Rotting under a tarp in that
broken-down building, no better off than that coyote or those crows.

“It’s good to see you,” Hildy said.

Brenna was gripping her too hard, she knew. She glanced up at Pokrovsky and pulled
away. “I’m so sorry, Hildy,” she said.

She looked into Hildy’s eyes. They were dry, but as she saw now, stricken. Pokrovsky
took Hildy’s tiny hand in his big, gnarled one and stood holding it, saying nothing.
Brenna wondered if it was the first time this had ever happened, Hildy allowing Pokrovsky
to hold her hand. She gazed up into his face, the glass shard eyes warm and sad. She
decided it was. “You don’t need to stay,” Hildy said. “Yuri will come in with me and
help me identify.”

“Are you sure?” Morasco said.

She nodded and closed her eyes, getting herself ready. “I suppose it was a mistake,”
she said quietly.

Brenna looked at her. “What was?”

“Robbie going into professional filmmaking.”

“He was a grown man, Hildy. You couldn’t tell him what to do with his life.”

She smiled, or tried to—a grimace of a smile that didn’t involve the rest of her face.
“When he was in high school, his father bought him a Super 8 camera. ‘Maybe that will
get him out of the house,’ Walter said. But to Robbie, it was as though we’d given
him a pair of eyes. He fell in love with that camera. He filmed everything. He was
obsessed. He’d film birds outside. He’d film me, ironing.”

Pokrovsky said, “You are beautiful, ironing.”

She didn’t look at him. “It gave him a social life, that camera. Began making little
films with the other kids in the neighborhood. He joined the audiovisual club at school.
He had friends  . . .”

“I don’t remember this at all.”

“It was when you were away,” Hildy said. “Life doesn’t stop when you go away.”

“I know,” he said softly, and something passed between them. A moment Brenna didn’t
understand. She looked at Morasco. He shrugged.

“Nothing made Robbie happier than the movies, and then the movies killed him,” she
said. “Was the camera with him? Or did someone take it?”

“It was gone,” Morasco said.

“You see, Yuri? That camera he bought. With your money . . .”

Brenna said, “I don’t know that the camera was the main reason.”

“The Southern woman. Was she the reason?”

“I don’t think so,” She stayed quiet about Shane. Let the Mount Temple cops bring
up that name with Hildy. Brenna didn’t want to see her face crumble, not now, not
right before she had to go in and identify her son’s remains. A young uniformed officer
walked into the lobby—a dark-skinned girl with cornrowed hair and a regal bearing.
“Mr. and Mrs. Tannenbaum?”

No one bothered correcting her.

“If you could just come this way.”

“One moment,” Hildy said. She opened her purse. “I found this in Robbie’s nightstand
drawer.” She plucked out a small key and placed it in Brenna’s hand. “It’s for that
PO box,” she said. “Since it’s what brought us together, I was thinking you should
have it.”

Brenna took the key, giving her hand a squeeze as she did. Hildy really did have the
smallest hands, like a child. “Thank you.”

“I wish we could pray together,” Hildy said.

“We can if you like.”

She shook her head. “It would be disrespectful,” she said. “Robbie was an atheist.”

Brenna watched Pokrovsky and Hildy follow the officer out of the room. Before they
walked through the morgue door, Hildy said, “Thank you, Brenna.”

“What was she thanking me for?” she asked Morasco, once they were gone.

“An answer,” he said quietly—that look, once again, seeping into his eyes, the look
Brenna didn’t like. “She lived with a question for two and a half months,” he said.
“You gave her an answer.”

Morasco started out of the building. Brenna followed. It was four-thirty and close
to pitch black. Brenna hated that about the winter.

Morasco turned to her. “I should head home,” he said, that look still all over his
face—the Thing We Need to Talk About. “Nick?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Not everyone needs answers, you know.”

He nodded. “I know.” He touched her face, and then he kissed her, very gently, as
though she were some fragile, breakable thing. She didn’t like it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Okay . . .” Brenna headed for her car, the feel of it lingering. The saddest kiss
ever. Yes, she understood the need for answers. Of course she did—she’d quit college
and gone to work for Errol Ludlow and wrecked her marriage, all because of that need.
But why did she have to get them from Nick? Why couldn’t they just shut up and screw
every night, without ever discussing anything deeper than who gets what side of the
bed, and can I get you anything from the kitchen?

Of course, there was one answer Brenna did want, and the question had nothing to do
with Nick Morasco. She thought of that question as she opened the door to her car
and slipped inside:

If RJ Tannenbaum was an atheist, why did he write “DEUT 31:6” on the bottom of a picture
of his favorite director?

Brenna’s cell phone chimed. She checked the screen, saw Trent’s name, and hit talk.
“Yeah?”

“I’ve got good news, good news, and weird news. What do you want to hear first?”

“The good news.”

“Okay. I’m out of the hospital.”

“That’s great!”

“Yep, I’m a first-rate physical specimen,” he said. “What do you want to hear next?”

“What would you like me to hear next?”

“The good news.”

“Shoot.”

“I found Shane Smith.”

“You
did
?” Brenna’s eyes went huge. “He killed RJ, Trent. I’m almost positive.”

“RJ’s dead?”

“Yes. We need to get the police in on this. Bring Shane Smith in now. Where is he?”

“Okay, that’s the weird news.”

“Tell me.”

Trent took a breath. “Shane is in Niagara Falls.”

Brenna frowned at the phone. “He stayed?”

“He didn’t have much choice.”

“Excuse me?”

“Brenna,” Trent said. “Shane Smith has been dead for two months.”

A
ccording to a news article Trent showed Brenna back at his apartment, Shane Smith’s
body had been found on December 2 by rescuers looking for a Japanese tourist who had
jumped the guardrail and tumbled into the falls. Shane had drowned weeks before, but
because the body had spent all that time in freezing water, it was unusually well
preserved. They were able to identify him not just by dental records, but by his many
tattoos. As far as they could tell, Shane had drowned during the last week in October,
which made it probable that he had died the day Brenna had seen him—October 30—on
the
Maid of the Mist
.

She wants to die . . .

“Do you think Diandra pushed him?” Trent said.

“Yes.”

“No question in your mind, huh?”

“Nope. She had this look on her face when I saw her on the boat . . . It’s hard to
explain,” Brenna said. “I think she was . . . steeling herself to do it.”

“Why were they on that boat with you?”

“That is one of the many things I’d like to ask Diandra when I see her next.” Brenna
flashed on her, rushing out of Trent’s bathroom in her pink angora sweater, calling
herself Jenny in that high, little girl’s voice . . .

“Whoa,” said Trent, staring at her. “You totally want to kick her ass.”

“That obvious, huh?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “It’s kinda hot.”

“I mean, I want to kick her ass in a non-
Grindhouse
kind of way. I want to genuinely hurt her. Trust me, it’s very unsexy.”

He stared at the newspaper article on his computer screen, at Shane Smith’s smiling
young face. “She got him to kill RJ and then she killed him. Maybe so he wouldn’t
tell,” he said, very quietly. “Maybe he was feeling guilty about it.”

“Maybe.”

“And you know what, Brenna?”

“What?”

“If I saw her again and she hit on me? I don’t know that I’d turn her down.”

“God, you’re an idiot.”

“I know.” He didn’t smile. “I know I am.” He stared at his hands for a while. “Hey!”
he said. “I just thought of something.”

“Yeah?”

“What if she’s committed a crime?”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t tell you this, but I can tap into NCIC now.”

“The FBI database?”

“Yeah. Remember Claudia?”

“The paramedic.”

“Duh. Of course you remember her.”

Brenna looked at him. “Her brother does computer stuff for the FBI.”

“Right. And . . . she kinda worked a deal with me,” he said. “She gave me an NCIC
password, straight from her bro.”

Trent called up NCIC on his computer. When he got to the page with the password prompt,
he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Removed a business card. At the bottom he’d
written out a long combination of numbers, letters, and punctuation marks, which he
proceeded to type into the computer. Brenna stared at him, her gaze moving from the
card, to Trent, and back again.