Someone Must Die (12 page)

Diana touched the pillow on his side of the bed, where she never slept, even after eight years. “Oh, Larry,” she whispered. “Our intentions were so good. How did things go so terribly wrong?”

C
HAPTER
20

The fishy air from the bay clogged her brain as Aubrey jogged the route she used to take when she was in high school—Tigertail Avenue to Vizcaya Museum, then back along South Bayshore Drive. The overhanging oaks and banyans blocked the sharpness of the morning sun and left the cracked, parched pavement dappled, much like on her morning jogs ten, twelve years ago.

After those runs, she had always felt better, as though she actually had some control over her life. But her special tonic had lost its magic.

This morning, the pounding of her feet did nothing to free her of her anger toward the Coles after their attack on her mother the night before, or of her frustration from the lack of results in digging into her parents’ past.

She was winded and covered with sweat when she got back to the house and took in the driveway and bushes. Her mom’s car and one black sedan. No newspaper, but maybe the FBI agents had taken it to check for a ransom note hidden among the pages.

She went into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, then poked her head into the family room. Smolleck wasn’t there. Agent Tan Lee, whom she’d been introduced to the night before, sat alone in front of his computers. The newspaper was open to an inner page on the table beside him. She could make out the headline:
N
O
L
EADS IN
M
ISSING
B
OY
.

It had already become old news, hidden inside the paper. The world had moved on, but Ethan was still missing.

“Anything happening?” she asked.

Agent Lee glanced at the newspaper, then back at her. “Not too much.”

She leaned against the doorjamb. She had read everything she could online before she’d left for her run but was hoping the FBI knew more than the reporters. “Please, Agent Lee. My mother and I are going crazy with worry. Ethan’s been missing for over forty hours.”

Lee looked around the room, as though he were concerned about someone walking in. They’d taken down the blown-up photos from the walls. Had they found a suspect in the crowds at the carnival?

“We cleared all known SOs in the vicinity,” Lee said. “And the carnival employees.”

“That’s good,” Aubrey said, though because of the note, she already knew a sex offender wasn’t involved. “What about the Coles?”

“I’m guessing you’ve seen the tweets,” he said.

She had. #where’sgrandma? #grannychildkiller? #doctordidie. And many others crucifying her mother. “I hope you’re not distracted by them,” she said. “The Coles have a vendetta against my mother.”

“We know that.” His phone rang. “Excuse me.” He answered the call, turning away from Aubrey.

She went upstairs to shower. The door to her mother’s room was closed. It was well after eight. She hoped her mother had gotten some sleep.

The hot water pounded over her as she considered whether the Coles could be behind Ethan’s kidnapping.

She had googled them at length after their appearance on the news, looking for some reason they might want to hurt or even kill Jonathan, in addition to wanting to get even with her mother.

She’d found nothing.

But even though she believed there was a reasonable possibility that the Coles had sent the threatening note, she wasn’t willing to tell the FBI and risk that the kidnappers would act on their threat to kill Ethan.

She quickly dried herself and put her hair up in a ponytail. After she dressed, she went to her mother’s bedroom. The bed was made, and her mother, wearing a flannel nightgown, sat on one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace, a small box and some color snapshots on her lap.

“Morning,” Aubrey said, as she sat down on the other chair. “Did you sleep?”

“A little.” Her mother scooped up the photos and put them back in the box, which was decorated with neon colors and old-fashioned peace symbols. Aubrey had never seen it before.

“Can I bring you some breakfast?” Aubrey asked.

“I’m fine, thanks. I’ll go down in a bit and fix my own.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Old photos.”

“Of what?” The feeling that Mama was hiding something reemerged, even though Aubrey wanted so much to quell it.

“Just some old friends,” her mother said. “Your father and me.”

“Any reason you’re looking at them now?”

“Your questions last night started me thinking about the past. Some terrible things happened, like that explosion, but there were a lot of good memories, too.” She reached into the box and handed Aubrey a photo. “I don’t believe I ever showed you this.”

It took Aubrey a moment to realize the man wearing a white bandanna was her father. Young Larry had shoulder-length blond hair, a cleft in his strong chin, and intense blue eyes that seemed to be searching for something.

“He seemed larger than life to me,” her mother said. “My white knight on a snowy stallion.”

A knot formed in Aubrey’s throat. It had been a favorite song of Aubrey and Mama’s—“My Hero Knight.” She remembered how her mother’s face would change when she listened to the lyrics. It occurred to her only now that for her mother, the song had been about Dad.

“He looks like a movie star,” Aubrey said. “Was he in costume for something?”

“That’s how he dressed back then. Back in the late sixties, everyone was playing some part.” Her mother rubbed her left hand with her right one, as though feeling for the wedding band she had once worn. “I never met a man as charismatic as he was.”

Aubrey studied the photo. He had once been a hero—to Aubrey and her mother. And she realized she and her mother had been attracted to the same kind of charismatic men. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Sorry? About what?”

“That he hurt you so much.”

“It was my fault as much as his. I changed a lot more than he did.” She took another photo out of the box. “Look at this one.”

Aubrey examined the second photo. It was of both her parents. How beautiful her mother was! Long dark hair framing her heart-shaped face, large brown eyes filled with light. Her parents had their arms around each other’s waists. Behind them in the distance was a large crowd, a lake, and trees with red-and-orange leaves. Mama was smiling. No—it was more like she was laughing. Aubrey couldn’t recall ever seeing such pure joy on her face.

“It was taken the day we fell in love,” Mama said.

The nagging feeling in her gut was back. It didn’t make sense that her mother was sitting here reminiscing and looking at old photos when they both needed to figure out who’d taken Ethan.

Unless she was looking for something in the photos.

Aubrey picked one up from the top of the pile. “Who are they?”

“Friends. The one with the glasses was my roommate.”

Three very pretty young women holding up two fingers in the 1960s symbol for peace. They were all roughly the same height, but otherwise very different. Her mother was in the middle, smiling broadly, her dark brown hair loose on her shoulders. The girl to her left was blonde and meek-looking. The girl to her mother’s right had a muted smile and a strong chin. She wore wire-rim glasses with pink lenses, and her black hair fell in a single braid across her embroidered white blouse. With her other hand, she fingered the rectangular shape on her necklace.

“Your roommate looks awfully intense.”

“She was.”

“What’s she holding? It seems very dear to her.”

“Her brother’s dog tag,” her mother said. “She never took it off, even when she showered.”

“Did you stay in touch with either of these women?”

Her mother stiffened, then took the photo out of Aubrey’s hand. “No. We lost touch.” She dropped the photo into the box and put the lid on.

End of subject.

But for Aubrey, something was opening up. These girls, or something else in the box, might have a connection to Ethan’s disappearance. At least, that was what she was certain her mother believed.

Why else would she be looking at these photos?

Aubrey wasn’t buying that it was because of nostalgia. Unfortunately, it was also clear to her that Mama wasn’t ready to share.

“I’m going to the hotel to check on Kevin and Kim,” Aubrey said. She knew her mother wouldn’t be comfortable going into Simmer territory herself. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes, of course.” Mama held the small box tightly against her, as though she were protecting it, or its secrets.

Aubrey left the room, wondering what secrets could possibly be worth protecting when Ethan’s life was at stake?

C
HAPTER
21

She held the small box tightly against her. It had been a reflex to grab the photo from Aubrey, but Diana knew it would serve no purpose to tell her daughter about that time of her life.

She took the lid off and went through the photos one more time, lingering on the one of her with Gertrude and Linda. She had forgotten how close the three of them had been at the beginning of freshman year. Before things changed.

She put the photos back in the box, trying to ignore the small white envelope, yellowed with age, but finally gave in to the nagging sensation and slid the card out of the envelope. It had accompanied a dozen roses sent to her dorm room the day after the Central Park antiwar demonstration.

Diana studied the cursive writing, similar to his careful script once he became a lawyer, but stronger and more determined, as he had once been.

D-Our love is stronger than the pain. Love, L-

Maybe that had been true once, but not anymore.

She put the card back in the envelope, stuck it between the photos, then tucked the box back into the old blue suitcase where she had kept it all these years. It wasn’t a hiding place, exactly—or was it? But if she’d been hiding the box, it had been to keep the memories from herself.

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, shivering with the memory of her bare midriff on that chilly night.

The brownstone belonged to a freshman named Michael Shernovsky, who had recently joined Stormdrain. Although
belonged
wasn’t quite the right word. The building was owned by Michael’s parents, who were letting him live there with a couple of roommates. It was on the border of East Harlem and Morningside Heights. But if Michael had told people that, many of them might not come—the whiteys who attended Columbia weren’t big favorites in the black community. At least, that was what Lawrence said when he explained about the Halloween party they were going to.

Di held Lawrence’s arm more tightly as they stepped around broken bottles on a cracked sidewalk lined by three-story, reddish-brown townhouses that had probably once been elegant but were now mostly in a state of disrepair. Boarded-up windows covered with graffiti proclaimed:
B
LACK
I
S
B
EAUTIFUL
. B
E
Y
OURSELF
. MLK J
R
. D
IED
F
OR
U
S
.

She followed Lawrence up a stoop to a weathered oak door that was covered with gauzy webs, a hanging skeleton, and a peace sign. Now that they were here, Di was questioning the wisdom of her Halloween costume. She had rejected wearing her everyday clothes because she wanted to stand out from the rest of the girls, who she was pretty sure would be dressed in headbands and long, loose cotton shifts, or torn jeans and peasant blouses. Instead, beneath the green army jacket she’d gotten at an Army Navy Surplus store, she wore harem pants and a top that left her midriff bare, in the style of
I Dream of Jeannie
. Unfortunately, instead of sexy, she was feeling self-conscious. She and Lawrence had only been seeing each other a couple of weeks and hadn’t crossed the line her roommate did with so little thought, but she was afraid her outfit screamed, “Make love, not war.”

Lawrence used the tarnished brass knocker and gave her a smile, as though reading her mind. He was dressed as himself, wearing his white headscarf and flowing white shirt, though she knew he would be just as gratified if people mistook him for Lawrence of Arabia.

The door opened, though Di couldn’t have said by whom, since the person disappeared by the time she stepped into the dark foyer and blinked the smoke out of her eyes. She smelled pot, tobacco, and incense, but there was another smell that she dragged deep into her lungs.

Chocolate.

Music hit her from different directions. Jimi Hendrix on the electric guitar, Ravi Shankar on the sitar, and the hoarse screaming voice of Janis Joplin.

People stood in the rooms to the left and right of her—smoking, drinking, and talking animatedly. Most everyone was from Stormdrain and not wearing costumes, but she noticed a Richard Nixon, and someone trying to be Paul or Ringo—she couldn’t tell which.

Steve was talking to Albert in front of a boarded-up fireplace. He wore a football jersey with shoulder pads, and Albert was dressed as Groucho Marx. They both held red plastic cups, probably rum-and-Cokes, which Stormdrainers liked to refer to as Cuba Libres, because they were, after all, revolutionaries.

Their host, Michael, dressed in an astronaut suit, approached and gave Lawrence a bear hug. “Hey, man. Got some good shit.” He passed Lawrence a joint, who took a hit and handed it to Di.

She’d smoked pot a few times at their meetings, but this burned her lungs and made her cough.

Michael grinned. “Like I said. Good shit.” He pointed to the stairs behind him. “Coats in the mudroom. There’s a keg in the kitchen, and plenty of rum, and some dark-haired sorceress baked us Alice B. Toklas brownies.”

“I’m getting one of those,” Di said, heading toward the kitchen. Lawrence followed, stopping to greet various people in the hallway.

A waifish girl with very short blonde hair, wearing a quilted pink bathrobe, was arranging brownies on a tray in the kitchen. Di did a double take. “Linda?”

Her friend turned and touched her head. “Do you like it?” she asked, widening her blue eyes as if there was any doubt that she was utterly adorable. “I cut it like Allison cut hers in
Peyton Place
.”

“It’s great,” Di said. “Now you really look like Mia Farrow.”

Lawrence reached for two brownies and handed one to Di. “I’d better not find any hair in these, Linda.”

Linda giggled. “Don’t worry. I didn’t make them, but I’ve had one. There’s plenty of grass. Have fun getting stoned.”

Di took a big bite of the brownie. The rich fudge didn’t quite mask the bitter taste of the pot.

“What’s wrong?” Lawrence asked.

“It has a chalky undertaste,” she said with a straight face, hoping he’d get the movie reference.

He laughed and grabbed her arm. “Come on, Rosemary, before the devil gets you.”

He got it. He “got” her. They had their own inside joke now.

He led her past people slumped against the hallway walls leading into the mudroom. A door with peeling paint led out to the back of the house. A few coats hung from pegs on the wall, but there was a bigger pile of coats on the floor.

“Take off your jacket,” Lawrence said, removing his own and dropping it on top of the pile.

She thought about her skimpy costume and wrapped her arms around herself. She should have worn something else. “I think I’ll leave it on. It’s cold in here.”

“I’ll keep you warm, baby.” He shoved the rest of his brownie in his mouth and slipped his hands under her coat, his fingers spreading over her bare midriff.

His hands were surprisingly warm, but she shivered at his touch.

“Mmm. Nice,” he said, pulling her closer and pressing his lips against hers.

His tongue darted into her mouth, all warm and wet and chocolatey. She went slack in his arms, feeling light-headed and delicious from the brownie.

A raspy voice was crooning about love being stronger than pain.

“Oh, man,” he said, gently pulling away. He grinned at her, a crumb of chocolate wedged between his front teeth. “Primo.”

She laughed, though she wasn’t sure whether he meant her or the brownie. She finished the rest of hers, the buzz growing.

“Good girl,” he said. “Now, off with that jacket. I want to see what I’ve been touching.”

She slipped it off, then threw it on top of his.

He stared at her, making her feel naked.

“Our love is stronger than the pain,”
the singer spat out, the words rubbing between them.

Don’t stop. Never stop looking at me,
Di thought.

A guy in fatigues staggered into the tiny room, pushing past them and throwing open the back door. A blast of cold air surrounded her, along with the sound of retching as the guy puked in the backyard.

“Let’s split,” Lawrence said, taking her hand. He opened a door that seemed to lead to the basement. “I want to see what’s down here.” He touched the inside wall, then she heard a click and a light came on. “Man, this is great.” He dropped her hand and bounded down the stairs.

She held on to an unfinished wood railing and went halfway down the wooden steps leading into a large, cold room that smelled damp and musty. There were no basements in the houses in Miami, and this one definitely creeped her out. She quickly took in the wood shelves, hanging pipes, rusting water heater, and some other mechanisms she couldn’t identify. A large workbench was shoved up against a brick wall that oozed mortar.

Lawrence was poking around in some cobwebs and seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Lovely,” she said. “Can we go now?”

“You want to go? But this place is far out. I’ll ask Michael if we can use it as Stormdrain headquarters. We can get some folding tables and chairs. Maybe a printing press to do our own flyers.” He wandered from one side of the room to the other. “This area will be great for supplies.”

What kind of supplies?
she almost asked, but she didn’t really care. She just wanted to get out of there. “I’m going up for another brownie,” she said.

“Okay, baby. I’m coming, too.” He raced up the steps behind her, stopping when he was inches away. “But wouldn’t you rather check out the rest of the house?” he whispered in her ear.

“What did you have in mind?” she said, though she knew exactly what he had in mind. She did, too.

He led her up the stairs to the second floor, past people drunk or stoned, blocking the way.

Joe Cocker was screaming about needing help from his friends.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Lawrence opened a door, releasing the smell of incense, candle wax, pot, and something more human. She peeked inside the room. Candles threw shadows against the walls. Flesh-colored blobs were writhing on the white rectangle on the floor. Arms and legs and heads and tongues and breasts and penises.

Di took a step back.

Lawrence laughed. “I’m guessing this is a little too groovy for you.”

One of the bodies separated from the others and slid off the mattress. The naked goddess came to the door, her black braid mostly undone, her brother’s dog tag hanging between her perfect naked breasts.

“Come back here, Gert,” a voice called from the room. Di recognized the growl as Jeffrey’s and was surprised Gertrude let him call her by a nickname.

“Go fuck a law book, Jeff,” Gertrude called back, then turned to smile at them.

“Have you had a brownie?” Gertrude asked Lawrence, though it sounded like she was offering him something else.

He stared at her just like he had ogled Di earlier, with the same hunger. “Yes,” he said. “They were primo.”

Di flinched. That word belonged to her.

“I made them,” Gertrude said. “Old family recipe.”

He smiled at her. “I’ll always be Alice Toklas,” he said, “if you’ll be Gertrude Stein.”

An inside joke between them, and Di was very much outside.

“So are you coming?” Gertrude grinned as she reached for his hand.

He glanced back at Di.

“Pollyanna, too.” Gertrude grabbed Di’s hand. “Come join the huddled masses.”

Di felt herself being pulled into the room, into the frenzy.

But this was all wrong. Sex was supposed to be about love, not just groping bodies. Di jerked her hand out of Gertrude’s and ran back into the hallway.

Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She was a fake. A poseur. Not the real thing like Gertrude. And she had lost him, probably forever.

Jefferson Airplane was crying about truth and lies.

Then his warm hands encircled her waist, his warm breath on her neck. He spun her toward him. She closed her eyes and licked the chocolate from his lips, melting into this man she wanted so desperately. She felt a burning sensation on her back, as though a pair of eyes were boring into her.

She turned, expecting to see Gertrude watching them.

But no one was there.