The Vanishing Year (23 page)

“Honey, what can we do for you?” Patrice reaches out, her long nails tapping my knee. Every finger has a gold ring on it.

“I'm, um, looking for Joan. Is she here?” They haven't made one move to get her. Yet, Caroline was clear that she lived here, with her parents.

Bernie and Patrice exchange glances and she takes my hand in hers.

“Honey, I don't know how to tell you this.” Patrice does a quick sign of the cross. “But our Joanie died three years ago.”

CHAPTER
22

The room is hot, stifling, and the clock over the mantel starts its song. Three o'clock.

“She's dead?” I repeat. There's a wad of
pizzelle
stuck in the back of my throat and I start to cough. Patrice hands me my water glass and I gulp it, gratefully, wiping a drip from my chin.

“She was killed in a hit-and-run. She was a pedestrian and . . .” Bernie's voice peters out while his mouth keeps moving. He gives a little shrug, like
it happens.
“It's New York,” he finally finishes.

“She didn't even live here anymore.” Patrice stamps her foot, suddenly bitter, her painted toenails flash inside peep-toe bedroom slippers. “She was married, moved to Manhattan, hardly ever came back
.
”

Bernie pats the couch next to him and Patrice stands up, relocates. He leans into her and closes his eyes, his lips move almost as though in prayer. Patrice wipes fat tears from under her eyes with her thumb.

“I'm sorry, honey, we do pretty good most days. It's been three years after all. I never go a day without thinking of her,
but I don't cry so much anymore. But you. You're a shock. Just how you look, your mannerisms. It's all our Joanie.”

“Can you tell me about her?” I don't know what I'm looking for, but I can't leave yet.

“She was a kind person, that's what everyone at her service said. That she was the kindest person they'd ever met. She'd help anyone. Small animals, children. She gave money to the homeless, always. Anyone with a hat or a bucket or a coffee can. It didn't matter what they were doing, she didn't care.”

“‘They're not begging, they're busking.' She always said that.” Bernie rocks back on his haunches, his big hands covering his bare knees. He laughs. “I thought it was so na
Ï
ve.”

“She worked at the library. She had friends. She had a life, not a big one, but a life nonetheless.” Patrice waves her finger at me, her mouth twisted in anger. “Then she meets Mr. Fabulous at some library charity event and
poof!
She's gone. Eloped! Not even a Catholic wedding for her mama. Some big fancy honeymoon in Paris. Paris! She'd always wanted to go to Italy.”

“Patrice.” Bernie shrugs. “She fell in love. Happens to all of us,” he nods over at Patrice with a wry smile, “at one time or another.”

“Then where'd she go, eh?” She leans in, rests an elbow on her knee. “When she died, we hadn't talked to her in almost a year. She was mad at me.” She straightens her collar. “I didn't want her to move away. Her life was here.”

“She grew up, you know. That's what kids do.” Bernie rolled his eyes in Patrice's direction and she sat back,
harrumph,
against the couch cushion.

“I just wanted her to keep her life. She wanted a new, big fancy life. She didn't have to stop speaking to me.” She turns and levels her gaze at me. “That's my regret. We weren't on speaking terms.”

“When she died, we didn't know she was in the city. She
died in Midtown. Midtown! Who goes to Midtown? What was she doing, seeing a show?” Bernie shakes his head. “And she was alone. Her husband didn't even know she was here. No one knew why. It was the damnedest thing.”

“Out of character, too. We've never been able to figure it out. She was a little anxious, you know?” Patrice tilts her chin at me, like I should know this. Like maybe I was anxious, too. “She took medication but it was getting better. She was coming out of her shell. We thought marriage would be good for her, at first. Even in high school, she was a homebody.” She shakes her head. “It's my one regret, in my whole life.”

“Patrice.” Bernie's tone is pained.

Patrice stands up, the sofa cushion inflates with a sigh. She waves her hand behind her, in my general direction, a motion of apology, and sways out of the room. I hear her heavy footsteps on the carpeted stairs.

Bernie lets out a large belly sigh, mops his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket. “I'm sorry. We're mostly okay. You're just so . . .” He examines my face like the words are written there. “Unexpected.” He stands up and looks at me sadly. “We were old parents. I regret that. We tried for years to have babies, almost a decade. Had a lot of miscarriages, no one could tell us why. It wrecked Patrice. Wrecked her. Joanie was our saving grace, it seemed. We maybe protected her too much because of it.”

I thought of Evelyn and nodded.

“You should go, honey. Listen, leave your number. I'll have Pat call you when she gets her strength back.” He stands up, the couch permanently molded into the shapes of their bodies. I pictured them there, night after night, in a darkened living room with nothing but a flickering television to cover the silence.

I scribble my cell phone number on the back of an old
lottery ticket that he gives me. He takes it and sets it on the television stand, which is just an old wooden box television with a flat gray screen. He walks me to the door, pats me awkwardly on the back.

He holds up one wide, pink hand.
Hold on a moment,
and ambles down the hall. A moment later, he comes back.

“Here, you can keep this. We have tons of them.” He hands me a small, laminated card. The front has a picture of Joanie, in front of a library, a short floral dress, a smile filled with endless summers and infinite possibilities. It could have been me. The back of the card has a prayer.

“That's her college graduation.” His hand shakes, a violent tremor, and he shoves it in his pocket. “She went to Queens College. Library science major. You know the trip was an hour and a half one way? Three transfers. Does that sound like someone with anxiety to you?”

I shake my head.

“You understand. It's hard.” His eyes are watery gray, without any distinct color, and up close his neck wobbles.

“I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spring this on you. I didn't know about Joanie.”

He coughs, thick and mucousy from the back of his throat. Then he says something surprisingly empathetic. “You've lost someone, too. You just didn't know it.”

I don't tell him I've lost a lot of people I didn't know about in the past few days. I reach up and kiss his cheek and leave him there, patting his jowl.

•  •  •

Once outside I call a car service. I stand on the corner, a half a block away from the Bascio residence. Someone keeps parting the curtains in the front window of the closest house. I half expect a police car to show up because I'm a
suspicious person
. I text Cash while I'm waiting.
Joanie is dead. Joan Bascio. Find out all you can. She was married
. Find out who.

Before I can think it through, I dial Lydia. She picks up on a half ring, her voice high and echoing, like in an airplane hangar. “Zoe?” There is a loud commotion behind her, a crash followed by a deep voice, almost in a yell.

“I'm here, are you okay? What's wrong?” My heart picks up speed.

“We've been vandalized. Everything is ruined.” There's a loud rustle, like she's turned her face away from the speaker, the scrape of her chin against the mouthpiece.

“What?” I wait a beat but there's silence, then talking. “Lyd. Where are you?”

“The shop. I have to go, we have to call the police. I'll call you back.”

“Is everyone okay?” I ask, panicked, my brain sifting through everything that's happened and settling, with a heavy, foggy dread, on the idea that I'm involved. This has everything to do with me. It's all connected.

“I think so,” she replies.

“I'm in Brooklyn.” Apropos of nothing. “It'll take me a few. I'll be there as soon as I can.” My brain is white hot. My hands shake as I hang up and dial Cash. I tell him about the shop. “Come with me?” I hate to ask him another favor.

He doesn't hesitate. “I'll meet you there.”

•  •  •

I meet Cash outside La Fleur d'Elise and survey the damage from the street. The storefront windows are smashed in, the glass splintered inward toward a single point, as though hit with a heavy object. I step over the pieces in the doorway. Inside, the exposed bulbs in the ceiling are broken, shards of glass screwed into fixtures are all that remain. The glass counter has been crushed, the refrigerator door hangs off its hinges, the arrangements inside have been ripped apart and flower heads scattered around the floor, which is wet with large puddles. The water buckets have all been upended.

“Two weddings' worth of inventory, gone,” Elisa laments as I come through the door. She stands up when she sees me and crosses the room. Her spindly arms fold around me in a limp, defeated hug. Javi works the broom in the corner pushing all the glass and floral carcasses to a sopping pile in the center of the room and then looks at it impotently, like
now what?

Lydia hovers in the doorway, a drooping amaryllis dangling between her fingers.

The counter in front, next to the register, is heavy, stainless steel. Meant to be a table for last-minute arrangements and trimming, if necessary. It's more functional than aesthetic. The top is etched with a thinly carved message. A message that is meant for me, I feel it in my bones, heavy and leaded. I run my fingers over the metal.

JAREd

The ugly word is scrawled with a dull straightedge. Words carved into metal are violent by nature, the message is practically irrelevant. The letters themselves are sinister, the way magazine clippings pasted on paper are indicative of ransom notes.

But this, this note is meant for me. In a way Lydia or Javi or Elisa could never know. The small
d
hovers slightly lower than the rest of his name. It's the brand, inside Rosie's mouth, that deliberate small
d
clinging to the corner of the
E
.

The blood rushes to my head. I feel at once hot and sick, a sheen of sweat coats my arms and I feel it down my spine below my bra strap, one single drip of fluid tracing lazily down my backbone. I sway and from what sounds like the inside of a tunnel, Cash yells, “Catch her!” but I don't remember anything else.

CHAPTER
23

The first person I see when I open my eyes is Officer Yates, her rounded dark eyes, long lashes, bright lipstick. My first thought is,
Why am I sleeping at the shop?
Elisa peers over Yates's shoulder, her face a mask of concern mixed with something else. Anger? Latent impatience at the very least.

I forget, then remember, seemingly at the same time. “How long was I out?” I sit up but feel sick and sink into the velvet-covered pink office chair that has been brought over just for me.

“No more than a minute.” Cash is on one knee next to the chair, leaning close. The smell of his aftershave turns my stomach.

“I just got here,” Yates offers. Elisa brings me water and I can't help but enjoy it, just a little. Elisa, waiting on me. Elisa, who once sent me to Duane Reade to buy a pencil sharpener. Twice. Because it's apparently possible to buy the wrong kind. Yates stands up and motions everyone back, long nails flickering. “Give her some space, okay? Let me talk to her.”

They disperse. Javi pouts with his broom, pushing it insolently into corners. Elisa pretends to flip through paperwork.

Yates pats my hand while I ask her about the man at the back door. She has a report from the night before she wants me to sign.

“I'm sorry we can't do more, there's just nothing to investigate.” She raises her eyebrows, and all I see is doubt.

Cash overhears and chimes in, “I was there. I saw the same thing Zoe did. There was someone at that back door. The door handle jiggled.”

“I believe you.” She pats Cash on the shoulder, placating. It's just no use. The word
resources
bounces around in my mind.

“What about Jared Pritchett? Did you look him up?” I press my left palm onto hers, so our hands make a sandwich, and close my eyes. A chill goes up my spine, like the trill of a xylophone. “Mick Flannery exists. This is all connected. Do you believe me now?”

“I do. I did before, but this helps.” She waves her arm around the mess and smiles a little, unexpectedly, flashing a nicotine-stained incisor at me. “I have ideas though. Give me time, okay. I believe you, I do. I looked up your testimony. This was some heavy shit, girl. Those kinds of crime rings are not run by one or two people. It's usually more like thirty. Fifty. This?” She motions toward the counter, the mess. “This is revenge, pure simple. To terrify you.”

“Then what? Kill me?” My mind flashes back to the stripped-down van. That bloodstain. That child's lacy sock. My stomach roils.

“Zoe, there are officers stationed at your apartment. We'll protect you.”

“I need to call Henry.” My tongue feels coated in sawdust.

“Do you have a place to go?”

I look at Elisa. Javi. Lydia. They all blink at me, silent. Then, Lydia nods her head, just once.

“Yes.”

“That won't be necessary.” Henry stands in the doorway of the shop, his hands on his hips. At the sight of him, my chest pops with relief. He looks like hell, his hair is disheveled, his face is red on one side, like he's been sleeping on it. I push up off the chair and I'm across the room in seconds. I stand in front of him, unsure, until he pulls me against his chest, which feels foreign and familiar at the same time.

“You're here. How? I didn't even have time to call you.”

“Zoe, I tried to call you, about ten times. You tell me someone is chasing you and then I hear nothing back. Except you stayed at Lydia's.” He surveys the room and sees Elisa, and gives her a nod of recognition.

Lydia opens her mouth to protest and then closes it, shakes her head, keeping the secret. I half thought she'd blurt it out, right there:
Zoe didn't stay with me.
Despite our gulf, she keeps it.

Yates pulls me away from Henry and I realize the refrigerator still hums in the corner, spitting out cold air through the broken glass. My arms gooseflesh. “Zoe, listen to me. I need you to be careful, do you understand me? You can't go back to your apartment. We'll put you under surveillance. Come to the station.”

“Yes,” I say automatically.

“Not an option. I'm getting her out of here.” Henry crosses his arms over his chest. This is his Henry pose, the one I've seen at parties; where most men relax, hold a drink, let their arms drape around a woman's shoulders, Henry stands like he is keeping guard. He, himself, is a counterargument.
His hand on Pink Spandex.
His eyes flick to Cash, cold and dismissive. His expression, tight eyebrows, slightly turned chin, say,
We have things to discuss.
I wonder then if he will bring an agenda. He turns to Yates. “Is she done?”

Yates nods. “Technically, yes. For now. I think it's best that you stay at a hotel. Somewhere in the city.”

“Yes. I understand that.” Henry holds his arm out, toward me. I know he's thinking of Fishing Lake. My mind spins.

“She needs to stay close by, Mr. Whittaker.” Yates's voice is stern, in a way I've never heard another person talk to him. “This is an active investigation. We need to be able to get a hold of Zoe.”

“Yes, Officer, I understand that. I have a house about an hour away.” He's resolute and Yates pushes her mouth together, her arms on her hips, her starched blue uniform gapping in the chest. Her broad shoulders rival Henry's and she looks at him, just as determined.

“I'd advise to keep her here,” she demands. I've never seen anything like it.

“Henry, the house won't be safe,” I interject, playing peacekeeper.

“It's all right, darling. I've got security coming. I just need to arrange it.” He holds up a hand in Yates's direction and mollifies, “Just find this Jared person. I want this bastard caught.” He herds me into the street, swooped and protective, so I don't even have time to say good-bye to Lydia, Javi, and Elisa, or thank you to Cash. He ushers me into the back of a car and we're in the street headed downtown before I can think.

What could possibly be the connection between Caroline, Joan, and Jared? What happened to Mick, how does he fit into all of this? I trace back Evelyn's relationship with Mick in my mind. Their meeting at the beach. His seemingly random disappearances. What is his connection to Caroline? I try to connect these dots, but pain pulses a quick beat behind my eyes.

Henry pats my hand the whole car ride, as though it's a pet. I want to tell him to stop, but I can't find the words. The sun hangs low in the sky, slung between buildings, orange and bright. Within minutes, we're in the Lincoln Tunnel,
speeding to safety. Henry the Hero. I check my phone to make sure it's on. Waiting, waiting. As we speed through the tunnel, the side lights flickering past the window remind me of a searchlight, seeking out lost, drifting ships.
Seeking, seeking something.
I touch my finger to the glass.