The Butterfly Clues (34 page)

“Did anyone know? About any of it?”

He swallows again. “Sapphire. Sapphire knew,” he answers. “And a couple of weeks before she was killed, she gave me some of her stuff to sell to Mario. She told me about this necklace she had that she didn’t want—said this super-rich guy bought it for her, some customer who was hung up on her. He’d been bothering her, she said.”

“That’s all? That’s all she ever told you about him?” I ask.

“Yeah. It was the only time she ever mentioned him. She told me to sell the necklace because it was probably worth a lot. I got a hundred and fifty bucks for it, but it was probably worth three times that, or more. That’s how Sapphire was, you know? Always trying to help out. And she didn’t want it… . She didn’t want anything of his things.”

Now, finally, everything is becoming clearer. “She gave you his watch, too, didn’t she?”

He nods, looks down at his hands. “He’d gotten drunk at the club and given it to her—tried to pay her for … well, for
you know
. She was pissed. I think she wanted to get back at him.” He pauses. “I was worried about her. She seemed … distracted. Anxious. I talked to Mario about it when I pawned the watch to him. He knew Sapphire, too—from around the neighborhood and stuff.” He shakes his head. “Mario seemed really interested. Wanted to know who the guy was, where Sapphire had met him. I told him it must have been a customer from Tens. I thought he wanted to
help
her.” He looks up at me, eyes wide, willing me to understand.

“And instead he wanted to blackmail Gordon,” I say slowly, as this last piece of the puzzle clicks into place. “He must have thought he’d hit payday when Sapphire was killed.”

Flynt looks pained. “I should have made Sapphire talk to me. But she was secretive, you know? She kept a lot of things to herself.”

“I picked up on that,” I respond. My heart thumps loudly, a beat resounding through my whole body. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“She called me the day before it happened—the day before she was killed—and told me to come over. And when I got there, she was freaking out, throwing shit around. She accused me of breaking into her house, going through all of her things. I told her she was just paranoid. But I guess … I guess she wasn’t. It was Gordon, or one of his guys, I guess, looking for any evidence that might link him to her. Notes, stuff like that.”

“Gordon probably had Vinnie do it,” I say. Pretty good way to set someone up: send them in to ransack the house the day before a murder happens there. Then something else occurs to me. “The day after she was killed,” I say, “you were by her house—digging through the Dumpster. What were you really doing there?”

“Truth is, I’d left this lighter at her house on the day of our fight. It was silver, engraved with my initials. It was, like, the
only
valuable possession I had, and I was counting on selling it, on finally having enough to get Anna—my sister—out here. I thought she might have chucked it because she was mad at me. I started getting worried that if it was found, the police would think I was involved. I was worried
you
would think I was involved.”

I stare at his fingers, wrapped around the mug in his hands. “I did. For a while, at least. That’s why I ran off … that day at your place, after we were …”

For a moment we sit in silence. Steam curls up from our mugs, twists together, floats toward the ceiling.

“When I went back to the barbershop today,” I say, my throat squeezing tight, “I thought you were out of here. For good.”

“I almost was,” he says, smiling slightly. “I packed all my stuff up and donated it to Malatesta’s. I was ready to board a bus, you know, ‘go west, young man,’ all that shit—but then, I remembered something I’d forgotten to tell you.”

“What?”

He pauses. “That I don’t want to leave you,” he says, simply, lifting his eyes to my face. “That I
can’t
leave you.” He puts a finger to the scar, right above my eye; I breathe him in. “You make your own rules. You won’t compromise. That’s amazing, Lo. You’re amazing.”

“Oh,” I say—I want to say it back, want to tell him again and again
I love you
, so badly it hurts—heart growing, rushing with new blood, tingling all over. “Oh” is all I can manage to say, before suddenly Officer Gardner is standing in the doorway, arms loaded with blankets, trying to suppress a smile.

She comes in, lays another thick blanket on the table. “I know you said you didn’t need anything, but the heat never really works back here, and you’ve got to be freezing.” She retreats again, and the door shuts.

“You know, she reminds me of you,” Flynt says, eyes glittering, moving his hand to mine. “She just charged right up to Tens, without waiting for backup or anything. She wanted to talk to Jones, and she was going to talk to Jones. Thank God. Otherwise we would never have found you.” Flynt laughs in disbelief, shakes his head. “You know Jones owed one of the girls forty bucks; she was screaming when we came in about how he’d raced off in the middle of a massage. She was pissed about her money.” He squeezes my hand three times. Three. Good. “A patrol radioed in—Jones’s car was speeding on Saint Claire Avenue. Gardner guessed he was heading to his warehouse. We—we were almost too late.” He puts his hand on my back again, runs a finger lightly down my spine. I shiver, inch closer to him.

“I found Sapphire’s SIM card,” I say quietly. “That’s how I knew it was him, or, knew it was Anchor—that was Sapphire’s nickname for him. He was trying to get her to sleep with him, and I don’t think she would. I think she—”

“She stood up for herself,” Officer Gardner says, completing my thought. Neither of us heard the door open or realized she’d come back with Lieutenant Flack—the tall officer who’d arrived on the scene after I’d found Mario—directly behind her. “Sapphire threatened to publicize his threats if he didn’t back off,” Officer Gardner continues. “He was edging his way into politics. It would have ruined that, his business, his marriage. We’re pretty sure that’s why he killed her. She became a liability.”

Flack steps slightly forward, extends his hand to my shoulder: “Penelope, it’s good to see you again. It’s good to see you
safe
.” He removes his hand, and Flynt touches my other shoulder, lightly, and then the shoulder Flack just touched, again.
He knows me.
Knows I need things in threes. A warmth floods my belly.

“Lieutenant Flack gave me the go-ahead to reopen Sapphire’s case, even though we’d already made an arrest,” Gardner tells us. “He trusted me; I owe him a lot of thanks for that.”

Flack rubs his eyes. He looks tired. “I’m glad I did,” he says. “Looks like our boy Gordon Jones might be the missing link in two unsolved homicides. Seems Mr. Jones very much insisted on getting his way.”

“No wonder she hid the SIM card in the butterfly,” I say, as the last piece of the mystery becomes clear. “She must have known he would look for her phone, destroy it to erase the evidence.”

“Psycho,” Flynt says, pounding a fist hard into his chair. “Ouch.”

Officer Gardner meets eyes with Lieutenant Flack; they both laugh. “I’m not going to disagree with you there. Flynt, I’m going to need you to stick around for a bit, okay? I have to ask you some questions. Standard stuff. Nothing to worry about.” She turns to me. “Penelope, your father should be here any minute to take you home. Okay?” She comes beside me, puts a hand on my head, removes it gently.

I stiffen, nod. “Okay.” I smile weakly. I’ve been trying not to think about my dad, and how angry he’s going to be.

Officer Gardner smiles back, her round cheeks furiously red, shiny; her big dark brown eyes twinkling. “First time meeting the parents?” she asks Flynt. He nods, gulps. “What better time than the present, right?”

She winks, and she and Flack click softly to the door. Flynt’s shoulder nuzzles closer to mine beneath the blankets.

A minute passes. The room is very still. The buzzing and whirring of phones and voices, the clamor of plastic and metal and hard-soled shoes outside is a staccato symphony far, far away. Flynt takes my hand, tracing his fingers along the lines in my palm. He looks up at me, still tracing.

“You’ve got a long lifeline,” he says, grinning—deep dimples set into his cheeks. “To honor the intentions of the universe, I have to make sure you live, for a very long time.” He kisses my hand.

I want to trap his warmth in my palm, spread it through my whole body. I want to feed the dark with light.

But, first, I offer him my other hand. “Two more times,” I tell him, resting my head on his shoulder. “It’s what the universe wants.”

CHAPTER 32

The door opens and I lift my head from Flynt’s shoulder, frightened again: Dad’s here. He stands in the doorway, a stark, shadowy figure. And then, he runs to me. “Penelope—Lo—” His voice breaks. I don’t know what to say, how to explain. I sit, glued to my chair, to Flynt’s knees, shaking again. Little-girl shame floods in.

“Daddy—I’m sorry—please don’t be mad—” The words leak out, watery, choked.

Then he does something he hasn’t done in a long, long time. He swoops down and he gathers me into his arms and he’s crying— I can feel his hot tears on my cheeks—and he kisses the top of my head and hugs me tighter. “Lo—I don’t care. I’m just so glad you’re safe.” He pauses, hiccupping. “My little girl. My baby.”

I pull softly away from Dad. “Flynt—this is … my father.” Flynt rises, cautiously, wiping his hands on his pants. “Dad, this is my— Flynt. This is Flynt.”

I blush. We both blush.

“Flynt. Hi.” Dad collects himself, holds out his hand. Flynt reaches for it—I can tell it’s hard for him not to bow, not to lift an invisible hat from his head and speak in funny voices—and they shake, once, firm, and Flynt steps backward to stand beside me. I feel the heat of his skin, through his coat, through my coat, touching me. I feel warm and safe, for the first time in what feels like a very long time.

Officer Gardner strides into the room. She looks to my father. “Mr. Marin,” she says, extending her hand to meet his, “I hope you know what an amazing young woman your daughter is.”

My father looks directly at me, unwavering. “I do. I do know. Thank you. For everything, Officer.”

“You know,” Officer Gardner continues, “it was Penelope who really made me keen to this case. Trust me—there were plenty of people making it very, very difficult for her. Most people would have just given up. Most people
did
just give up. I’m sure Lo already knows all about that.” She looks briefly to the ground, taking a deep breath, looking back at us. “I have a daughter Sapphire’s age. She had her own problems with drugs—now she’s doing better, thank God. But when I heard about this case, I started to wonder—what if this were
my
child? Would I push deeper? Would I care more?” Gardner smiles at me. “I think it was meeting Penelope that made me want to do right by Sapphire.” She squeezes my shoulder, two times. I squeeze it once more when her hand drops back by her side, and then the other shoulder, three times.

“Sorry,” I say, sheepishly, knowing they’ve all seen, knowing I have to say something.

“Queen P,” Flynt says, wide eyes shining, tipping his fuzzy bear ears into my shoulder, “you’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” My belly goes warm; Dad’s watching; Officer Gardner is watching. And I don’t even care. The four of us stand there, a loose circle, kicking up little flecks of dirt and blanket fuzz against the noses of our shoes. Flynt’s long-tongued brown boots; Dad’s leather loafers; Gardner’s dirt-streaked Reeboks; my scuffy Chucks.

“We should get home, Lo,” Dad finally says, his voice raw. “Mom’s worried.”

I nod, suddenly very, very tired, too tired to be embarrassed, or scared, or nervous—adrenaline settled, smoothed into sleepiness, and turn to Flynt. “Where are you going to go? Back to the barbershop?”

Officer Gardner puts her hand gently on my father’s arm, moving him casually to the side. They start their own conversation, too formal, full of pauses.

“Malatesta’s, methinks,” Flynt says. “If they’ll take me back, that is—if they haven’t already sold my things for a new tube of ultramarine paint.” He wraps his arms around me again, squeezing me into him. “Hey—I’m going to see you really soon, right?”

I stare at the hole in the shoulder of his flannel, move close enough to see his skin beneath. “Yes,” I say, to his pine needle, to his clove and his grass and his snow, to his scruffy face. “Yes.” And once again: “Yes.” He rests his jaw on the top of my head, I feel it move as he speaks, feel the small hairs bristle against my own, and I don’t pull away.

“Good. Because I think you owe me at least … a date. You know, for saving your life and all.”

Dad doesn’t say much on the ride home, other than asking a few times: “You’re sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” to which I reply, each time: “Yes, I’m sure.” I don’t say much either, but our silence is peaceful. I think we’re both thinking the same thing as the road stretches before us, a long black tongue: if they’d come just a minute later, we wouldn’t be in this car together right now.

He turns on the radio. I watch him as he drives, look for my features in his face, for what he’s given me: dark hair (his now streaked in gray, like Mom’s), long forehead (he used to say we needed the extra space for our extra-big brains), pale skin, ruddy from the cold.