Mother's Milk (12 page)

‘Yes,' Hobbs said, pulling one of his cards from his breast pocket. He turned it over and wrote on the back. ‘This is the address for the morgue, and the number. Call before you go, and if you could do it today, or tomorrow at the latest, it would be best.' He straightened, glanced at Barrett and then back at the Kanes. ‘We'll go now. If there's anything else you think of, don't hesitate to call. And please accept my condolences; this is something that no parent should ever have to face. I am truly sorry.'

‘Thank you,' Marion said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She led them back out front and stood motionless as they drove off.

Barrett watched her in the side mirror. ‘I can't imagine what she's feeling,' she commented, losing sight of her as the Crown Vic crunched and turned on the crushed shells. She thought of Max, his chubby cheeks and crystal-blue eyes, not wanting to think about what it would be like to have your child's life end.

‘Yes,' Hobbs agreed, and they drove in silence, each thinking about their own families. Finally Hobbs broke the quiet. ‘Unfortunately heroin is dirt cheap right now and what used to be the most taboo drug has become the thing to do. What Mrs. Kane was saying about that kid dealing in the dorm. That kind of thing happens, but it's usually softer stuff and club drugs – lots of pot, some hallucinogens, hash, E, but not dope. It's also usually one of the students or a group of them that starts dealing out of their room. Invariably somebody rats them out and they get closed down. But this feels different, more organized. You know, I think I'd like to have a word with that girl, Taylor. Interested in tagging along, maybe grab something to eat when we get back to the city?'

‘Sure,' Barrett said, wondering a little at the invitation. She glanced at the clock – it was nearly four – and remembered her mother's request to get home on time. If traffic were good, which was a gamble, they'd be back in the city by six, more than anything she needed to check in at her office and see if they'd come up with anything new. ‘I need to call home,' and uncertain as to why she felt such hesitation, she pressed speed dial.

‘Hi, Mom,' Barrett said. ‘How's Max?'

‘Still good, dear.' She paused. ‘I'm assuming you're on the way home …'

‘About that,' Barrett said, ‘any chance you could go in late tonight? Something bad happened at work and—'

‘No, dear, there isn't and it's too late to call Brandon for a sub. I need to get back to my place and change, I've got a blob of spit-up on my shoulder. Not to mention pull myself together into the vision of loveliness my regulars have come to expect. I was counting on you being home by six. What about giving your sister a call? Maybe she could sit?'

‘No, Justine's working crazy hours at the hospital right now. She needs to sleep. I'll get home as soon as I can, but it's not going to be much before seven.'

‘Barrett,' her mother said in a tone she'd heard only rarely as a child, ‘don't do this to me. Brandon is the best boss in the world, but even he has his limits and I can't lose my job. I love you and adore Max, but I've been here since eight this morning and I need you to come home now. Do you understand?'

Barrett was about to say something when Hobbs reached over and grabbed her cell. ‘Hi, Ruth.'

‘Ed?' Ruth said, all annoyance gone. ‘Well, there's a welcome voice. How the hell are you and how come you stopped calling?'

He gave Barrett a look. ‘Long story. I promise to get her home by six.'

‘I'd certainly appreciate that,' Ruth said, now all Southern loveliness and drawl.

‘My pleasure,' and he hung up, before Barrett could retrieve the phone.

‘Why did you do that?'

‘She has a point. Going back to your office won't make a hill of beans difference, let the crime-scene team finish their thing … You can go back tomorrow. Or if you're really feeling desperate to look at it again we could head there after seeing that girl.'

‘But I've got Max.'

‘So? We'll bring him with us.'

She looked at Ed, about to argue, but realized two things; first, he was right and second, the thought of spending time with him and Max together – even if it involved interviewing a witness – didn't sound half bad.

J
anice Fleet looked across her gleaming mahogany desk at fifteen-year-old Morgan DeFelice – Chase was correct, this little slut was just what the customers wanted, and at the end of the day it was all about the money, and struggling to maintain the Manhattan lifestyle that a hundred sixty-five thousand a year as a commissioner couldn't come close to covering.

But Morgan, with her dyed blonde hair, stomach-baring striped top that revealed a navel piercing with a shiny purple ring, low-rider jeans, and cheap shoes, brought lots of memories bubbling to the surface – bad memories. She pushed those away, and dressed in a light-weight Kelly green suit and silk blouse she was all business. It wasn't easy, this one looked so much like the first one – Krista – the one she and Avery had taken into their home nearly ten years ago, the one who'd turned her life to shit.

‘So, Morgan,' she smiled, showing her even porcelain-veneered teeth, noting how the girl seemed out of place and fidgety in the tasteful Chelsea office that had once been Avery's. It was where he provided consultation and performed minor cosmetic procedures. It was also where she caught him screwing Krista – their foster daughter – in one of the two examination rooms. ‘What kind of work do you think you'd be interested in doing?' It was evening and the four-storey building, still owned by the limited liability corporation she and Avery had set up, was deserted, just her and Morgan … and of course Chase, waiting in the next room. The blinds were drawn and the dark-wood furniture, shelves filled with books and awards, midnight-blue carpet and leather couch and matching club chairs and ottomans gave the room a cozy feel.

‘Well,' the girl leaned forward; she gazed at the wall of framed glossy photos of high-fashion models interspersed with plaques and awards on the shelving unit behind Janice, ‘I've done a lot of modeling. You know, catalog and runway, but what really interests me is acting. I know I would have to start small, but maybe something on Broadway. Work my way up to television and films.'

‘A girl with ambition,' Janice said, noting that her tongue had been pierced. ‘Excellent.' She got up and walked across to the bar. ‘Could I get you something to drink. A soda? A wine cooler?' She winked, and opened the refrigerator concealed by a wood panel. ‘It is after five.'

Morgan's eyes lit and her tongue darted between her lips at the mention of alcohol. ‘It has so many calories, but I'd love a cooler.'

‘Smart girl to think about that, no matter how thin, you've got to watch the figure.' Janice removed two bottles of the sickening sweet pink beverages from the fridge. ‘Ice?'

‘Yes, please.'

Janice twisted the caps on the two drinks, making sure the girl heard the whoosh of carbonated bubbles. She clinked ice cubes into large dark blue acrylic tumblers – breaking glass can be such a bother – and handed one to Morgan.

‘I saw you left your bag in the waiting room,' Janice said, loving this part, the setting of the trap, the bait, the steel jaws about to slam down. ‘Any chance you've brought your book?' She watched Morgan's face, wondering what shape the lies would take.

‘I completely forgot,' she said without pause and took a couple deep swallows of the sugary drink.

‘Not even a headshot and résumé?' Janice asked.

‘I just had new pictures taken,' Morgan said.

‘Not to worry,' Janice said, ‘a pretty girl like you,' and she asked Morgan an innocuous stream of questions, to which the girl responded with lies. Telling Janice she was eighteen and had graduated high school. She threw around names of well-known photographers and magazines she had worked with and appeared in.

But by the time Janice got to, ‘What was your favorite course in high school?' Morgan's eyes had fluttered shut.

Janice swooped forward and retrieved the rest of the drugged drink before it left yet another stain on the dark carpet. She pried it from the girl's soft pink fingers, noting how the nails had been bitten and would need a bit of work with an emery board.

‘OK, Chase.' She knocked on the connecting door and opened it. ‘She's ready.'

While Janice drugged the girl, Chase waited in what had been one of the examination rooms for Dr. Avery Fleet's cosmetic and reconstructive surgery practice. It had two doors, one that led to the office and the other to the waiting room and reception desk. He sat in the semi-dark and made a rapid series of phone calls – seven in total, the numbers all memorized. The phone was a top-of-the-line prepaid cell with light-up buttons, speaker phone, conference calling, and camera and video capability, just like the one that had gone missing. It would be used for tonight only and then he'd pulverize it with a hammer and send the plastic and metal guts through a cross-cut shredder. It was what should have been done with the last one. ‘Yes,' he said into the cell, ‘in twenty to thirty minutes. Very good.' He hung up and called the next.

Through a slit in the closed blinds, he looked out at the mostly residential street, three stories below. The block was undergoing massive change, with many of the old brownstones and parking garages being demolished and replaced by high-rise pricey condo complexes. This little brownstone that Avery had shrewdly purchased for his practice – and apparently for some extra-marital activities as well – for just three hundred thousand dollars nearly thirty years ago was dwarfed by all the new construction.

Janice had it done over after Avery's death, the examination table gone, the sleek stainless-steel cabinets, autoclave, and sink all gone. Chase had taken many of the surgical instruments for himself; she would have just thrown them out, tens of thousands of dollars of precision German steel, unused boxes of syringes and needles for administering Botox, he'd even kept the cartons of purple propylene gloves, and sutures with which he practiced tying knots. He felt a hint of nostalgia. There was no glamour left, even Avery's exquisite artwork – Pre-Raphaelite masterpieces – Janice had boxed up and sent to auction. He'd been furious with her, seething that she'd not given him one of the glorious canvases that showed beautiful Renaissance men and auburn-haired women, drawn with intense realism, their perfectly proportioned faces aglow as if lit by rays of sun. She'd said that she couldn't, that there couldn't be anything traceable between the two of them.

Now, waiting for Janice to finish prepping Morgan, he sat silent, imagining the room as it once had been, and picturing himself in the role of the surgeon, the central fantasy shifting subtly over time as the details filled in. Powerful, handsome, successful, and rich; he'd have it all. He'd be married by the time he finished medical school. His wife would be beautiful, although he doubted she would be better looking than he, and intelligent. She could also be a little older – like that Dr. Conyors. Before he'd ransacked her office – an exercise in futility as the cells were nowhere to be found – he'd looked her up on the Internet. She was one very hot woman, which was further confirmed by the picture he had of her with her newborn – even then, after the stress of childbirth when most women are drained and look like hell, she'd glowed with a dark beauty as she stared at her baby. Janice, who clearly despised her, had even called her ‘pretty'. But that wasn't the best of it, she was a doctor and a director of a facility. It would be useful to have a spouse who could support them both. But his prospective wife couldn't be too old; he wanted children, two of them, and Dr. Conyors with her new baby and breast pump was obviously fertile. He'd found the news story of her dead husband and wondered why there were no other family pictures anywhere in her office – it seemed a wrong note, but maybe she didn't want people to know too much of her private business. He wondered what her reaction had been when she found her office all torn up, would she be frightened? Janice had wanted him to be discreet … oh well, sometimes she couldn't get her way, and the longer he'd looked for the cells the more furious he'd become. What had she done with them? Did she even have them?

He heard Janice's knock. And then her backlit silhouette through the open door. ‘She's ready. Are you done?' she asked.

‘Yes, they're all waiting.' He followed her into the office. He looked at Morgan slumped in a leather chair, her head had fallen back; her mouth hung open and she was snoring. The girl had wasted no time; she'd called Janice within an hour of leaving his office. She was young, younger than any of the others, exactly the kind of girl Avery Fleet and so many other men found exciting. He'd idolized Avery as a man who'd achieved everything that Chase wanted – power, money, respect … at least that's what he'd once thought. The truth of his double life had been revealed in layers, like an onion coming undone, after his death.

‘Get her ready,' Janice said.

Chase noticed eagerness in her eyes, a glitter as though this weren't just about the money – money that she never split fairly. ‘How much will she bring?' he asked, tipping the girl's chair back and dragging it across the rug toward the leather couch. ‘You know she kind of reminds me of—'

‘Don't,' Janice warned, as she pulled a wine-colored velvet spread from out of a cabinet and draped it over the sofa.

He waited while she smoothed it out and then he lifted the drugged girl and set her down.

‘The minute she walked in the door,' Janice said, ‘it was like going back in time; she could have been her sister.'

‘I know; I've been her counselor for the past couple years, but it was only recently I made that connection.' He knelt and pulled off her shoes, noting the poor quality and how the blue-plastic heel on one had pulled away from the sole. Timing his words so that he could catch Janice's expression, he added, ‘Just like Krista Brent.' He looked up, noting the lines in her face, the pucker around her mouth and under her nose, and the hollows in her cheeks as she winced. If Avery had still been alive he'd have done something about that, probably several somethings – a total lift, Botox on the forehead, and a chemical peel to tighten the pores.