Live to Tell (5 page)

He’d done the crime; he’d done the time—gladly. Far preferable to the potential sentencing for extortion.

Now it’s time to pick up where he left off.

“Here we go.” The clerk is back, plunking a big plastic tub on the counter between them. It’s marked “July: Misc.” “Have at it.”

Peering in, his heart pounding in anticipation, Byron sees that it’s about half-full.

He pokes around, trying to act as casual as any dad might if his daughter lost a regular old toy.

But he doesn’t have a daughter—and this wasn’t a regular toy—and, Jesus, where is it?

“It was pink,” he tells the woman, as panic rapidly begins to set in.

How can it not be here?

“Maybe you lost it somewhere else.”

“No, I… I know it was here, and I know someone turned it into the lost and found, because… I had a friend come down and check, right after we lost it, and she saw it here.”

“Why didn’t she pick it up for you?”

“I… wanted to do it myself.” That makes no sense, of course. But he can barely think straight.

Could someone have seen what he’d done that day?

No. Absolutely no way.

He’d been careful.

“Maybe someone else took it by mistake?” the woman suggests. “That could happen.”

His head snaps up. “You just hand things out to anyone who wants them?”

“No, we don’t just
hand
them out,” she retorts, suddenly a lot less friendly. “We take down the contact information for every single person who comes in here—and they all have to specifically identify whatever it is that they lost.”

“I’m sorry.” He shifts gears, and it takes every ounce of self-control for him to muster a calm smile. “I don’t mean to get all worked up, but my daughter will freak out if I come home empty-handed because she thinks Mrs. Slappydoodle is here.”

Mrs. Slappydoodle? Give me a break.

But the woman is smiling, softening.

“You know how kids are,” he adds for good measure.

“I sure do.”

“Do you have yourself?”

“Four. And grandkids.”

“What! How can you possibly have grandkids at your age?”

She all but pats her hair.

“My baby girl is thinking she’s going to be tucked in tonight with Mrs. Snapdoodle.”

Snapdoodle?

Was that it?

Snappydoodle? Slappydoodle?

Slappydoodle. Right.

Oops.

“You know…” The lost and found woman looks thoughtful. “I do remember a dad who came in here one night awhile back, looking for some toy his daughter had lost in the station—just like you. He was in a real hurry, talking about his ex-wife…anyway, I could tell he had no clue what he was even looking for, other than that it was a pink stuffed toy.”

“Really.”

“Now, that doesn’t mean—”

“Did he take a pink stuffed toy with him?” he cuts in anxiously.

She nods, and her gaze flicks past his shoulder. A quick sidewise glance tells him someone else is waiting to be helped. Fine. Byron will make this quick, and be on his way…to God knows where. At this point, does it really matter? He’d travel across the world to get his hands on that file again: his ticket to financial freedom. But with any luck, he’ll just be a subway ride away from whoever snatched his file out from under him.

No unsuspecting stranger—or kid—would ever stumble across the memory stick concealed in the stuffing. No way. The file is still safe—for the time being.

“Listen, if you can just check the records and give me the contact information, I’d really appreciate it,” he tells his friend behind the counter.

“That, I can’t do.”

His heart sinks. “Please?” He offers her the charming smile that has wheedled plenty of forbidden information from reluctant sources over the years.

“Sorry,” she says firmly, “not allowed to hand out information like that.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’m dead serious.” And she looks it now.

“All I really need is his name.”

“No.”

“Come on. Please.” Gone is the pretense of nonchalance. He’s begging, and she knows it, and she couldn’t care less, shaking her head.

“Check back with us,” she advises. “If that other dad got the wrong toy, you can be sure his ex-wife and his daughter are going to let him know about it.” She gives a maddening chuckle. “He’ll be back.”

“But he hasn’t brought it back yet, and it’s been weeks, you said.”

She shrugs.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Dead serious,” she repeats.

Forgetting the seasoned reporter charm, he snaps, “Since you refuse to give me his name, the least you—”

“I refuse to because I can’t.”

“Well, the least you can do is call him for me and ask him if he has my daughter’s toy.”

Her eyes have hardened. “No,” she says simply.

“You can’t? Or you won’t?”

She shrugs.

This is ridiculous. Should he ask for a supervisor?

No. If he learned anything in all those years as an investigative journalist, it’s to know when to persist and when to quit—for the time being, anyway.

“Now if you’ll please just…” She tilts her head, indicating for him to step aside.

He spins on his heel, fists clenched at his side in fury, nearly crashing into the person behind him, who stands holding an open newspaper.

“Sorry,” he mutters as he brushes past, thoughts already careening ahead toward his next move.

CHAPTER FOUR

O
kay, Daddy, we’ll see you then… I love you, too… Here’s Ry.”

Watching Lucy hand the receiver over to her brother, Lauren notes that for all the growing up her oldest daughter did over the summer, she hasn’t reverted to calling Nick “Dad.”

It’s been years since she started fifth grade and informed her parents that she would no longer be referring to them as “Daddy” and “Mommy.” She went back to “Daddy” last spring, when Nick left.

Lauren isn’t quite sure what to make of it, and she hasn’t commented on it.

“’S’up, Dad?” Ryan heads out of the kitchen with the phone.

That Nick actually called the house—instead of texting the kids’ cells—was somewhat surprising. Lucy jumped on the phone when she recognized his number on the caller ID, and Ryan hovered beside her waiting for his turn.

“Make sure you let Sadie talk to Dad before you hang up,” Lauren calls after Ryan.

No reply.

No surprise.

She isn’t in the mood to go chasing after him. Anyway, if Ryan doesn’t put Sadie on the phone with Nick, she’ll probably never know the difference. It’s not as though their youngest child has asked for her father much lately—or, for that matter, for her pink stuffed bunny. But Lauren suspects they both weigh heavily on Sadie’s mind.

“I’m starved.” Lucy snags a grape tomato from the salad Lauren’s throwing together. “When’s dinner?”

“Soon. Did you remember to pick up the mail for the Hilberts and the Levines?” The next-door neighbors on either side of them are vacationing together in the Outer Banks this week.

“And the O’Neals. Yes.”

“The O’Neals went with them?” They’re the across-the-street neighbors.

“No, they’re in California. We’re, like, the only ones left on the block this week. Can we go someplace good next summer, Mom?”

“Like…camp?”

“I was thinking Europe. I’ve never been there.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“That’s so sad. Everyone should visit Europe before they turn twenty-one.”

“Yeah? Who told you that?” Glancing at her daughter, Lauren knows right away.

Beth.

“Never mind,” she tells Lucy, who shrugs and steals another tomato as Chauncey trots into the kitchen. “Can you please feed the dog?”

Lucy opens a cupboard and finds a can of Alpo. “You know, Mom, it’s crazy for you to pay someone to walk him every day when you can pay me instead.”

“I’m not the one who does the paying, your father does,” Lauren reminds her. “And you weren’t here all summer, and you won’t be here when school starts, so…”

“But I’m here now.”

“So are Ingrid and Ted.” Chauncey’s regular walkers, a middle-aged woman and a college-age man, work for Dog Days, the local service Nick hired. Until he decides it’s no longer necessary, she might as well keep them around to make her life easier.

The same goes for Magic Maids, the cleaning service. Now that Lucy and Ryan are home, Tuesday—the regular cleaning day—can’t come soon enough.

“Here you go, boy.”

As Lucy puts a bowl of dog food on the floor in front of an appreciative Chauncey, Lauren admires her daughter’s effortless beauty. Lucy is blessed with a trim athletic build, big green eyes, and a flawless complexion that’s seen a little too much sun this summer for Lauren’s peace of mind—though she secretly acknowledges that the glow is becoming. Lucy’s perpetual ponytail has been replaced, over the summer, by a new style. Damp and freshly shampooed, it falls straight and silky past her shoulders.

Any second now, she’s probably going to come home with her first boyfriend.

And I’ll have to handle that on my own, too
.

But Lauren will have to worry about it when the time comes. What matters now is that Lucy is all right—faring better, perhaps, than anyone. She’s no longer pulling out her eyelashes. Nick was right about one thing: the time away from home obviously did their older daughter a world of good.

As for their youngest child… Sadie did see the child psychiatrist, Dr. Rogel, once. Lauren can’t tell whether it helped or not. For the first half hour, Sadie spoke to the doctor alone, behind closed doors.

“But you said I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers,” she protested when the doctor summoned her in.

“It’s okay. I’m right here. And Dr. Rogel’s not a stranger.
I
know him.”

“But
I
don’t.”

“You can talk to him. That’s why we’re here.”

Miraculously, once she got over her shyness, Sadie actually did open up to Dr. Rogel. She talked a lot about Fred, her missing toy rabbit.

When Dr. Rogel met with Lauren after the session, he asked if Fred was real. Apparently, he thought Fred might be some kind of psychological metaphor for Nick.

When he found out Fred was real and had, indeed, gone missing, Dr. Rogel nodded knowingly.

“It’s very common for children of divorce to become excessively attached to, and even hypervigilant about, their belongings.”

Lauren was so stuck on the phrase “children of divorce” that she didn’t think to ask any follow-up questions.

Children of divorce.

It’s surreal, even now, to hear Lucy, Ryan, and Sadie described that way.

Children of divorce?
Her kids? How did this happen?

She should probably schedule a return visit to Dr. Rogel for Sadie before school starts. Maybe for all three of them. It’s expensive, and insurance doesn’t cover it, but Nick told her to do whatever she thought was necessary.

Dr. Rogel did mention that he’d be going on vacation in August. But maybe he’s back by now—or hasn’t left yet. And he said another doctor would be covering his patients in his absence.

I’ll call and make an appointment for Sadie
, Lauren decides.
She needs it.

Hell, maybe I need a shrink, too.

“So…how’s your father?” she asks Lucy, reaching for an avocado that’s been ripening on the windowsill.

“Good. He said there’s no cell service out at the house he’s renting, so he can only call us when he’s in the town.”

“I thought he’s been texting you.”

“He did, a few times—he must have been in town.”

“Mmm hmm.”

Lucy looks hard at her. “
What?
”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t you believe that?”

“Believe what? I didn’t even say anything.”

“You said ‘mmm hmm,’ like you think Daddy made it up about the cell service and not being able to get in touch with us more.”

“I don’t think that, sweetie.”

Okay, that’s a lie. And judging by the flash of misgiving in Lucy’s eyes, maybe she doesn’t believe Nick, either.

“What else did Daddy have to say?”

“Well, I told him we got our fall schedules for school in the mail yesterday.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Lauren has been meaning to take a look at them, but they seem to have gotten lost in the household shuffle.

“When I told Daddy I have Mr. Trompin for HR, he said—”

“Wait, what’s HR?”

“Homeroom.”

“Oh. Right.” Lauren wonders why that would be relevant to Nick, but doesn’t necessarily want to admit she doesn’t know. She must have missed something.

Why does she keep missing things? She needs to do a better job of staying on top of the mail, and the kids—

“Daddy said to tell Mr. Trompin he says hi and that he misses playing basketball with him.”

Oh—that explains it. Mr. Trompin is obviously one of the guys Nick used to shoot hoops with over at the park on Sunday mornings.

“Oh, and Daddy’s coming home tomorrow,” Lucy adds.

Lauren looks up. “What time?”

“He didn’t say. It doesn’t matter; we’re not seeing him until the next day. He’s picking us up for brunch.”

Sunday. Clearly, he’s going to miss half of his officially scheduled weekend visitation with the kids. Not that anyone other than Lauren seems to mind.

Well, she doesn’t
mind
, exactly. Now that Lucy and Ryan are home from camp, breathing a little life back into the house, she’s hardly anxious to spend an entire weekend alone here. Still…

You’d think Nick would want to rush back from the beach to be with them, after so much time apart. You’d think, too, that he’d at least check with Lauren to make sure he’s not screwing up her Saturday plans.

He would be if she had any.

Does he assume that she doesn’t?

Lauren thrusts the knife’s blade into the avocado.

Maybe she should actually make some plans, just to prove a point.

When Nick resurfaces, he’s going to get an earful from her—or maybe from her attorney. Yes, let no-nonsense Emerson Snyder—who’d come highly recommended by Trilby, who used him for her own divorce—straighten out Nick.

After all, you don’t just ignore court orders—and that’s what the custody agreement is…isn’t it?

Oh geez, who knows?

Lauren wishes she hadn’t been too distracted by her wounded heart to pay more attention to the legal arrangements. Maybe she’d have a leg to stand on now had she pressed Nick to stick to the visitation schedule from the beginning. But no, she’d gone along with his lackadaisical approach, happy to spare the kids that whole back-and-forth routine—and, all right, happy to have them all to herself.

“You don’t actually expect us to eat that, do you?”

Lauren follows Lucy’s gaze to the spongy brown spots on the overripe avocado.

“No, I don’t expect you to eat that.” She steps on the pedal of the trash can and chucks the whole thing. “Maybe we should go out to dinner. What do you think?”

“Because of a rotten avocado?”

Lauren shrugs. “Just because.”

“Really? We never go out to dinner anymore—I mean, not with you.” As soon as the last words leave her mouth, Lucy looks as though she wishes she could take them back.

Of course the kids eat out whenever they’re with Nick. Nick is the one with the job—and the one who can’t cook.

Lauren, who
can
cook—and in fact was marinating chicken breasts to go with the salad—suddenly doesn’t feel like it tonight. There’s not a breath of breeze at the open window, and the kitchen must be a hundred degrees. An air-conditioned restaurant—and a meal someone else cooks and cleans up after—couldn’t be more appealing.

“We’ll go down to Mardino’s,” she decides, reaching for Saran wrap to cover the half-made salad. “Can you go help Sadie get her sandals on while I clean this up?”

“Sadie’s still in her bathing suit. She’s watching
The Wizard of Oz
on TV.”

“What?”

Wait a minute—that’s right. When they got back from the pool, Lauren had told Sadie to go wait for her in the living room and watch television and she’d bring her some dry clothes.

And then I got busy in the kitchen, and I forgot. Terrific.

Lauren’s first instinct is to beat herself up over it—and to tell Lucy to forget about the dinner they can’t really afford when there’s perfectly good chicken in the fridge.

But everyone needs to treat themselves sometimes, right?

Right
.

And sitting around in a wet swimsuit has never killed anyone, has it?

Neither—as far as she knows—has a divorce.

“If you’ll clean up the salad scraps,” she tells Lucy, “I’ll go find something for Sadie to wear.”

Her daughter eyes the cutting board, littered with vegetable peels, onionskins, and celery strings. “Okay, but we really should compost this stuff, Mom. We all have to do our part to save the planet, you know?”

Yeah, well, we’ll worry about the planet tomorrow
, Lauren wants to tell her.
Tonight, let’s just focus on saving ourselves.

She can hear Ryan, still on the phone with Nick, as she leaves the kitchen.

“Yeah, and Mom let me have a couple of guys over to watch the Yankees–Red Sox last night,” he’s saying, “and she made us those brownies I love…yeah, with the chocolate chunks… I know they aren’t, but they’re good… Yeah, well, whatever. I have to go, Dad. Wait, here, talk to Sadie first.”

Maybe, Lauren thinks with a faint smile as she unfastens the doggy gate at the foot of the stairway and heads up to Sadie’s room for her clothes, the tide is turning at last.

Smiling so hard his face hurts, Garvey Quinn wishes the old lady would release her death grip on his hand. But she’s been grasping it for what feels like five or ten minutes, going on and on about her health problems and her family’s health problems and her neighbors’ health problems, and how she suspects there’s a secret toxic waste dump somewhere around here.

Garvey isn’t so sure she’s wrong. This industrial western New York town is maybe an hour’s drive from the notorious Love Canal, and look what happened there.

“Even my cousin’s dog has cancer now,” the woman informs him with more anger than sorrow.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Barbara Ann.”

He sees a glint of pleasure in her weathered face as she registers that he remembers her name. Yes, and he only heard it once, when she first came up to him, introduced herself, grabbed his hand, and refused to let go.

Barbara Ann. Of course he remembers. In the grand scheme of things, remembering names is one of the simplest tasks on his daily agenda. He has all kinds of little tricks for doing so.

Barbara Ann—that’s an easy one.

Ba-ba-ba…ba-ba-bara Ann
.

Garvey was a Beach Boys fan back in his college days, when all his friends were listening to so-called alternative music. Image-conscious even way back then. Typical conservative Quinn behavior.

“Nobody’s listening to me!” Barbara Ann rails. “I talked to my doctor and I wrote to the mayor. I even called
Eyewitness News
. You know what?”

“No, what?”

“I got to talk to an assistant reporter, and she said she’d send someone down to check things out, and do you know what?”

“No, what?” he asks again.

“She never did.”

“Is that right.”

She vigorously nods her scarf-covered, chemo-ravaged head. “Nobody ever does what they say they’re going to do. And that’s the biggest problem with the world these days.”