Everything You Have Is Mine (1st of the Lauren Laurano series) Read online

  Everything You Have Is Mine

  A Novel

  Sandra Scoppettone

  A Lauren Laurano Mystery

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SLASHER came in the night again. He must have. I know that when I went to bed there were only three lines branching out from my right eye. Now there are four.

  Looking in the mirror this morning, at home, I didn't notice. But here, in my office, there's a cruel, unforgiving light above my looking glass. I never expected these trenches at the age of forty-two. I thought I'd have at least a decade before I had to accept growing old.

  Not that I think I'm old; it's just that I'm closer to the end than I am to the beginning, and sometimes that knowledge is scary. Still, aging is better than the alternative.

  And, hell, I have a terrific life: my own business, a happy, long-term relationship (eleven years) with Kip Adams, and a brownstone she and I own in Greenwich Village in New York City. So stop complaining about a new furrow, Lauren. Besides, sometimes I pass for thirty-five, though there are fewer and fewer people fainting when they hear my true age. According to Kip, I'm still attractive. I wear my straight brown, gray-streaked hair to my shoulders, parted on the left, the way I've worn it half my life. My eyes are brown, with dark, long lashes, and I'm told I have a classic nose. Best of all, I don't have to worry about weight. Even so, there's one problem.

  I'm short. Five two. I know I shouldn't care, but I do. This is partly vanity and partly because I'm a licensed private detective. Sometimes I face dangerous situations, so I do carry a gun — and not one of your wimpy Lady Smith's .38s, either. I tote a Smith & Wesson Chief's Special with a four-inch barrel. In hot weather, I wear my .25 automatic in an ankle holster. This is particularly handy because it's out of sight. I own, but seldom carry, a Magnum .44.

  I've never killed anyone — well, not since I've been a private eye. Before ... before that... ah, hell.

  I open my cardboard container and unwrap my croissant. I love drinking coffee out of a paper cup: it makes me feel like I'm in a movie, one of those film noir numbers. If I could I'd wear a trilby. Not really.

  I'm a conservative dresser, and today I wear a lavender turtleneck under a pink sweater, and jeans. My matching socks are pink, my Reeboks white.

  My jewelry is modest, too. I wear my grandmother's gold bracelet, my wedding ring, and a wristwatch with a black leather band.

  I walk to the window, and while I take a bite of the croissant, I look down on Seventh Avenue. It's a quiet morning.

  Then the phone rings.

  "Lauren Laurano, private investigator," I say.

  It's Jill, a good friend and one of the owners of the best independent bookstore in New York.

  "Something's happened," she says, ominously.

  "What do you mean, 'happened'?"

  "I don't want to talk about it on the phone."

  If there's one thing I've learned as a P.I., it's that no one ever wants to talk about it on the phone.

  "Is Jenny all right?" I ask. Jenny is Jill's lover and partner in the business.

  "She's fine. Can you come over to the store?"

  My watch tells me it's a little after nine, almost an hour before they usually open. "Sure. I'll be there right away."

  I finish off my coffee and leave the remainder of my chomped croissant on my desk, wonder when I last ate a complete breakfast, and take my gray wool jacket from the chair where I threw it.

  Gordon Peace is washing down the entryway of my building. He's a tall man with orderly blond hair, and today he's sporting a new, somewhat ragged mustache. Gordon is sleek, like a Doberman. He wears tight black jeans and a black T-shirt that shows off his pecs. I assume he's gay, though I've never seen him with anyone of either sex. I know little about him except that he's twenty-eight, wants to be a writer, and, like everyone else in New York, is working

  on a novel. The only personal dealing I have with him is lending him books. I don't lend books to just anyone, but he takes good care of them and is scrupulous about returning them quickly.

  We say good morning.

  "How's your novel going?" I ask.

  "Mezzo-mezzo," he answers, turning a large hand from side to side.

  Gordon isn't Italian, as I am, but he often affects phrases in foreign languages.

  He snaps his fingers. "Damn. I finished the Jane Smiley book, and I meant to bring it this morning."

  "That's okay. Bring it next time, though, because someone else wants to read it."

  "Yeah, I'm really sorry, Lauren."

  "Don't worry. Next time will be fine."

  "I hate to hang your friend up like that. Look, I could go get it. I don't live far from here."

  "Gordon, please, it's okay."

  "You sure?"

  "Positive."

  "How's the shamus business?" he asks. His chin rests on his hands, capping the mop handle.

  "Comme ci, comme ça," I answer, but Gordon doesn't get it. I move around him, open the front door.

  "Ciao," he says.

  Outside, January feels like April. The weather's crazy, and everyone's talking about the greenhouse effect. Mark Twain comes to mind because nobody is doing a damn thing about it.

  It takes only a few minutes to walk from my office to the bookstore, but I'm stopped at Seventh Avenue and Tenth Street by a man wearing a sign fastened to his shabby shirt. It says:

  The rent on my apartment has been raised to $250,000 a month. Please help me so I won't lose my home.

  It makes me smile. I reach into my pocket and give him one of the small change-filled cellophane bags that I always carry.

  A battered bowler sits on his head like a pot. He tips it. "Ah, lass,

  you're a wonder. This wee bag of change will go toward the terrible rent me landlord's asking for. Thank you from the bottom of me heart."

  We both know exactly where the wee bag of change is going, but it doesn't matter. He's presumably homeless, like so many others who strew the streets like litter.

  Near the middle of the block I see Joe Carter: Joe of all trades. In his forties, he's tall and slight, his salt-and-pepper hair thin like spider's webs. He wears his usual blue sweatshirt, with gold letters that spell wolverines, and a pair of paint-stained khaki pants. On either side of his prominent nose, his brown eyes are red-rimmed, as though he's been crying, but I know this isn't so because he always looks this way.

  Carter is the neighborhood handyman, and though he can find and fix a leak, build bookshelves, rewire a lamp, or replace a pane of glass in record time, there's something about him that I don't like. I've never known what it is or why it bothers me. Instinct, I guess.

  "Morning," he says pleasantly.

  "Hi, Joe."

  "Feels like spring."

  "It does," I say, and continue walking. "See you."

  "Have a good one."

  I grind my teeth at this epidemic phrase, but like a sheep, I answer in kind.

  Three Lives Bookstore is on the corner of Waverly Place and Tenth. It's everything a bookstore should be. Warm and inviting, with pine shelves and counter lovingly constructed by Jenny and a friend. Green-shaded lights hang from the ceiling, casting a comfortable glow. There are rugs on the floor, and the room, though small, houses two tables. The larger one displays art and photography books, which are boosted more often than anything else. Novels are seldom stolen. What the hell can you do with a novel besides read it, after all?

  I tap on one of the small glass panes. Seconds later Jill opens the door. She's an attractive woman, with dark-red hair that frames her lightly freckled face.
Recently she turned forty and has taken on a more serious demeanor. She's wearing jeans and a green sweater, heightening the color of her eyes.

  "Want some coffee?" she asks.

  "Had some. What's up?"

  She locks the front door after me and motions for me to follow

  her. We go behind the counter, where there are two chairs. No one else is in the store, though there may be an employee in the basement.

  As if reading my mind, Jill says, "We're alone, so don't worry."

  "I'm not worried, you are," I remind her.

  "Right." Jill sips tea from a mug. "You're the only person I can think to turn to, Lauren."

  "Theft?" I ask. A few years ago one of their employees was systematically stealing from them, and they engaged me to discover who the perp was. I did.

  "I almost wish it were. It has nothing to do with the store. Well, it does in a way, because she's a good customer," she says in her usual rapid-fire style. Long ago I decided Jill's mind works so quickly her mouth has to fight to keep up with it.

  "Who's a good customer?"

  "The sister of the woman I want you to talk to."

  "What woman?"

  "Lake."

  "Lake?" I ask skeptically. "This is a person's name?"

  Jill nods. "Wait until you hear the rest," she says apologetically.

  "What is it, Lake Michigan?" I ask, laughing. That Jill remains unsmiling gives me pause.

  "Close but no cigar," she says. "It's Huron."

  "Come on."

  "It is. What do you expect? She was born in 'sixty-nine."

  The date startles me. I often have this absurd reaction, as though I can't believe that anyone could be born after the forties. In 19691 was a grown woman, out of school and working. And ... my friends were naming their children Pond, Celery, Sky, etc., so why am I surprised by Lake Huron?

  Jill continues, "I've been trying to get her to talk to you for about a week, and she finally agreed this morning. So much time has passed I'm afraid you won't have a lot to go on, but something has to be done."

  "Why don't you tell me what happened, Jill?"

  "There's no money in it," she says sheepishly.

  I can feel a feminist cause in the air.

  "All I want is for you to talk with her."

  "I don't need money for that." It's true, time is money, but I've never been able to assess that properly.

  "That's what I thought. If you can't convince her, then —"

  "Jill? What are you talking about?"

  "Rape."

  Funny how even now that word gets me in the gut. Rape. Like a blast from a 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun. I think of Warren and then of the two perps. Warren would have been forty-six now, probably married, with several kids.

  "Feeling the way you do, I mean, I thought you'd be ..."

  "Are the police involved?" I ask.

  "No. That's the whole trouble. She won't talk to the police. Will you see her, Lauren? Convince her to go to the cops?"

  "I'll try," I say.

  "Jenny said I shouldn't involve you, that it might be upsetting, but I knew you'd help."

  Jenny was right. It is upsetting, but that doesn't preclude my lending any help I can.

  Jill says, "I'll phone, and you can arrange a place to meet."

  "If she lives around here, see if she'll come to Arthur's. How will I know who she is?"

  "She'll know you."

  Arthur's is on the corner of Charles Street and Greenwich Avenue. The restaurant occupies one good-sized room, and if you sit near the window you can watch the passing parade. These days a lot of that parade is heartbreaking. So many men walking by have AIDS. The look is haunted, unmistakable.

  Arthur's is, to say the least, unpretentious. In other words, it's not about food. The place is a good spot to meet people because no one hassles you if you sit for a few hours with one cup of coffee.

  Across the street, above a natural-foods restaurant, is the Café Degli Artisti. That's where I usually meet paying clients, unless they want to go to a bar. The building next door houses one of the six video clubs Kip and I belong to. I admit it: we're movie freaks. While wondering if I should rent something for tonight, I feel a presence at my table.

  The woman who stands above me was not born in 1969. She looks as if she were in her thirties. What's going on?

  "Are you Miss Laurano?" she asks in a pleasant voice.

  "Sit down," I suggest.

  She's tall — well, to me everyone looks tall. Still, this one is about five ten. Her hair's light-red, almost orange, and it's been permed so that the strands frizz around her face, brush her shoulders. She has large blue eyes, like robin's eggs. Her face is heart-shaped, the nose slightly out of line above a generous mouth. All the parts are good, but as a whole they come out ordinary, pedestrian.

  She's wearing one of those black and white Arafat scarves, and when she takes off her tweed coat and folds it neatly on a chair, she reveals a tasteful blue button-down shirt and a pleated gray skirt. There's no way this woman could have been born in '69. 'Fifty-nine I might buy.

  "Would you like something to eat or drink?" I ask.

  "Just coffee, thanks."

  I look around, but as usual there isn't a waitress or waiter in sight. Where do they go? I wonder. And who is Arthur? I tell the woman someone will come in a moment, which is true. Then I break the ice. "Well, Lake, I —"

  "Ursula."

  "Ursula?"

  "I'm Lake's half-sister."

  "Different mothers or fathers?"

  "Different ... mothers," she says hesitantly. "I wanted to meet you before you saw Lake."

  I feel irritated. "To see if I'm suitable?"

  "Something like that. My sister is very ... very shy, and especially so now."

  "You want something?" our waiter interrupts in a bored tone.

  "Coffee."

  He moves away silently, as if he were ice-skating.

  "Jill recommended you highly, so it's not that I don't trust you. I just wanted to see if you were the type of person my sister could confide in. I don't want her to have to repeat the story any more than necessary."

  "Am I the type of person your sister can confide in?" I say churlishly.

  "I don't know yet."

  At least she's direct. I like this because I'm always direct. I don't understand the need for artifice when you know what you want.

  Gracelessly, the waiter plunks the cup and saucer on the table, causing coffee to spill over the rim.

  Arthur's is not about service, either.

  "What exactly do you want from me?" I ask, trying to sound affable.

  "I want you to find the man who raped her."

  "And?"

  "Turn him over to the police."

  I'm glad she doesn't expect me to be judge and jury.

  "Lake's very ... well ... fragile, and it's important that she's handled right."

  "Is it her fragility that's keeping her from telling the police?"

  "In a way. Mind if I smoke?" Not waiting for my response, she takes out a lustrous gold case, snaps the catch, and withdraws a brown cigarette. I can't remember the last time I saw anyone using a cigarette case.

  I gave up smoking four years, two weeks, and five days ago. But who misses it?

  Ursula says, "Lake's avoiding the police is due more to the circumstance of the rape than to her personality."

  "And what was the circumstance?" I ask.

  "The rapist was her date."

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTER I TELL URSULA my story, she decides I'm suitable and that I may be a fair detective, too. I try to appear flattered, though what I am is depressed. It invariably brings me down to remember.

  We walk along the narrow Village streets in silence, and I admire the architecture. I always spot something new: a brass knocker, a carved wooden door, cement lions, like sentries, guarding a stoop.

  When we reach a brownstone on West Thirteenth Street, Ursula stops.

  "Th
is is it."

  Because of the location, I assume that a student can't afford to live here, but I ask anyway. "Your place or hers?"

  "Mine."

  I nod, and we start up the front stairs. Ursula takes out a key, slips it neatly into the lock, gives it a half-turn, and the door opens. We're in a hall that leads to the back of the building. There's a set of stairs on the left, but we stop at a door on the right. She uses a key again. Inside is a lovely living room decorated in shades of blue and lavender.

  "Sit down, make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."

  She opens a set of lace-curtained glass doors, and before she disappears I glimpse part of an office.

  The furniture in the living room is Victorian, as are the fabric coverings, the pictures on the walls, and the collection of knick-knacks on all the surfaces. There's a marble fireplace with wood and paper laid out in readiness. Large windows face the street. A strong scent of a potpourri is present.

  I pick up a black-and-white photograph in a standing gold rococo frame. A man and woman pose against a forties car. The man's handsome, with closely cropped hair, wearing slacks and a sport shirt. The woman's in a blouse and skirt. This being Ursula's house, I assume she's Ursula's mother. And that would mean that Lake's father could've been in his fifties when she was born.

  While I look at the woman for a resemblance to Ursula, the French doors open and the two women enter.

  I replace the picture and stare at Lake. One seldom sees beauty like hers off the big or little screen. I can see a vague likeness to the man in the photo.

  Lake is about five seven and looks like a perfect size six. Long blond hair outlines a creamy oval face. Her eyes are indigo spheres, the brows arching thickly above them. The nose is straight and small, the mouth the color of pomegranate juice. She's wearing jeans, Frye boots, and a chambray shirt, her only jewelry a silver and jade ring. When we're introduced, she gives my hand a solid squeeze. I like that. So many young people don't know how to shake hands.

  We all sit down, I in a comfortable chair and the two women on the couch facing me.