Everything You Have Is Mine (1st of the Lauren Laurano series) Page 2
For a moment I don't know what she means. When it becomes clear, I wonder why Ursula doesn't understand why telling my story over and over might be hard for me, even though it happened twenty-four years ago. But I can see that unless I repeat it. Lake's not prepared to trust me.
So I tell again about when I was eighteen, parked one cloudy night at the Lookout with Warren Cooper, a boy I was dating even though I knew then — had always known — the truth about myself.
We were making out when both front doors of his jaunty Ford were ripped open and two men hauled us from the car and dragged us into the woods. Warren was forced to watch while the men raped me in turn. Then one of the men put a gun to Warren's temple and blew off the top of his head. I thought I'd be next, but instead they raped me again, beat me mercilessly until they believed I was dead, and then left me there to rot. With my multiple skull fractures and loss of blood, it took me three excruciatingly painful hours to crawl out of the woods and down the winding road to where I was eventually rescued.
Although the results of that night were incredible, I stop my story here because the rest can hold no interest for Lake or Ursula. The silence in the warm room clings to us like tropical vines.
Lake finally speaks. "You've never gotten over it, have you?"
"It only disturbs me when I have to talk about it. I've been through counseling, so I don't have nightmares anymore. It's something you should do as soon as possible."
"Yes," she replies vaguely.
"Can you tell me what happened?" I ask.
Her pale cheeks flush.
"I know the rapist was a date," I add.
She nods, humiliated.
I discern the expression easily, having worn it myself. "How long have you known him?"
She shakes her head and abruptly begins to cry. Her hands cover her face. There's no sound, only the slight lifting and lowering of shoulders. I look at Ursula. Concerned, she comforts Lake, a hand on her arm.
Uncovering her face, Lake apologizes.
"I understand," I say. I wait a moment, then repeat my question.
"It was a second date," she says haltingly.
"Where did you meet him?"
"You mean, that night?"
"Originally."
She shakes her head but says nothing.
"Go on, Lake," Ursula urges gently. "It's all right."
Lake looks from her to me, then back to Ursula again. "There's something I didn't tell you," she says softly.
"Oh, really?"
I detect a pejorative tone in Ursula's Oh, really? Maybe the Victorian decor reflects her spirit.
"What didn't you tell me?" Ursula continues.
"Please don't be mad at me, okay?"
"Mad at you? Why would I be mad at you, Lake?" Ursula seems genuinely puzzled.
"Because you ... you warned me."
"It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except that you tell Ms. Laurano the truth about everything."
Lake looks at her feet. "He ... he was a blind date."
"How could you?" Ursula exclaims, then, chagrined, claps a hand over her mouth.
"I knew it," Lake cries.
"No. No, I'm sorry, darling. Please, it doesn't matter. Go on."
"Who fixed you up?" I ask.
She doesn't answer.
Ursula says, "Did you hear Ms. Laurano's question?"
Startling us both. Lake jumps to her feet and yells. "Oh, why did I ever tell you? Why did I let you talk me into this? I can't... I just can't." Sobbing, she runs from the room.
Ursula says, "I'm so sorry, Ms. Laurano."
"It's not your fault. And I wish you'd call me Lauren."
"All right." Flustered, Ursula paces. "I don't know what to do now. You must think I —"
"I don't think anything, except that your sister's upset and there's something she doesn't want to tell us."
"I'll try to bring her back."
"No," I say. "Leave her alone for a bit. I'll call you later. Maybe she'll feel more like talking then."
♦
I know my croissant will be stale by now, so I stop on the corner of Eighth Street and Sixth Avenue at Gray's Papaya and buy one of their terrific sixty-cent hot dogs. I will also manage to choke down a glass of papaya juice.
While I eat, I stand at the window and think about Lake. Going on a blind date isn't as innocuous as it once was, but I can see why she would do it. It's hard to meet men in New York, so having a friend set up something could seem the prudent way to go. Apparently this is something she and her sister discussed, Ursula warning her about the inherent dangers.
Why is Lake protecting her attacker? Maybe if she'd been dating him awhile I'd understand it better. But why shield a stranger? After hearing my story, Lake must've known I would believe her, be simpatico.
Something is off here ... something doesn't add up. I pop the last piece of hot dog into my mouth, wash it down with sweet sips of papaya and toss my garbage in the pail. I need to speak with Ursula.
The first pay phone I find has no receiver, and the second doesn't have a dial tone. The third, which is blocks away, has a receiver and a dial tone. I know because someone is using it. The fourth phone is healthy and mine.
After a lengthy skirmish inside my handbag, I locate the scrap of paper on which I've written Ursula's number. Paper is tricky for me. I've thrown away more important letters and documents than I care to think about. Kip says it's because I want to remain unencumbered. Perhaps.
Ursula answers on the first ring.
"Oh my God, I'm so glad you called. I've been trying to get you."
"What's wrong?"
"It's Lake. She's gone."
As Lake doesn't live with Ursula, I ask her what she means.
"She left without telling me—just went out the back through the garden — and I haven't been able to reach her by phone. I'm worried ... she's so depressed."
"Are you suggesting she might commit suicide?" I ask.
There's a slight intake of breath, as if I've shocked her. "It's occurred to me."
"Has she ever threatened —"
"No, but since the rape ..."
I ask for Lake's address and assure Ursula that I'll find her sister. When I leave the phone box and walk toward the East Village, I realize that I haven't discussed my fee with Ursula. So what else is new?
Lake lives on Seventh Street between First and Second avenues. The area is having a robust renaissance, with new restaurants, clubs, and boutiques springing up like dandelions. A few years back it was in competition with SoHo for gallery space, but that didn't last. The art scene is no longer here.
Apartments that once rented for $200 a month tops now command as much as $1,000. There are still some stabilized places, though, and I assume that Lake lives in one of those.
I don't like spending time in this area. As much as it's been gentrified, an atmosphere of drug dealing lingers on. Although the real drug scene is farther east, many druggies promenade here like hellish apparitions. Crack and crank remain the twins of death.
Two young men on skateboards zip past me. I cross the street, and a woman on a bicycle blows a whistle as she almost knocks me down. I hate cyclists. They think they're above the law and never obey the lights. This is one of my pet peeves, and I can go on about it at length.
Lake's building is a tenement, as I anticipated. Nevertheless, a sign advertises co-ops for sale. In the vestibule I read the names on the roster. The apartment's on the fifth floor: 5C. I ring, doubting that I'll get a response even if she's home.
Convinced I'm not going to gain entry this way, I ring all the bells, and inevitably someone buzzes me in. Is it faith or foolishness that prompts a person to answer an anonymous caller?
Once inside, I dig into my purse, this time taking out my wallet, which holds my license. Whoever answered my ring will be waiting for me.
I find her on the fourth floor. She can't be more than sixteen, her hair blue on one sid
e, pink on the other. She wears black high-heeled shoes and a black dress that ends mid-thigh.
"Yeah?" she asks in a granular voice.
I flip open my wallet to my license, hold it up. "Private investigator," I say. It's meaningless but always works.
Fear floods her eyes. "I didn't do nothin', lady."
Lady. It always jars me. Somewhere inside I think I'm no older than this girl. But she calls me lady, and I'm forced to see that she could easily be my child.
"It isn't you I want," I say.
"Jackie's not home."
It's amazing what people will tell you. "Really?"
"Cross my heart," she says, and illustrates this by dragging her index finger across her chest twice.
"What's your name?" I ask, because I would if this were real.
"My name? It's Bambi, why?"
"Bambi what?"
"Listen, my ma knows where I am."
"I told you, it's not you I want."
"So what d'ya need my last name for?"
"The record."
"Oh. Well, it's Bloom."
Bambi Bloom. I wonder what Mrs. Bloom thinks of her daughter's hair, and if somewhere, in one of the boroughs, she blames herself for the way her Bambi has turned out.
"When will Jackie be back?"
"He's split. Won't be back."
"Do you know where he's gone?"
"Who, me?" she asks, as though she has no idea who or what we've been talking about.
"Yeah, you."
"Hey, look, lady, I don't know nothin' about Jackie. I mean, he's history far as I'm concerned, you get my meaning."
I say I do, pretend I'm frustrated by this, thank her, and start downstairs.
"Have a nice day," she inexplicably calls after me.
As I continue descending, I hear her door close. I make it to the first floor and hide myself under the stairs. I look at my watch. Forty-two seconds later I hear the faint sound of a door opening and closing, the roll of tumblers in the lock, and then the click-clack of high heels as Bambi Bloom hurries down the steps.
When she's gone I come out of hiding and, on Reeboked feet, make my way to the fifth floor.
There are four apartments to a floor. The ones on the left are A and B. I go to the other end of the hallway. Number 5D is on my left; 5C, Lake's apartment, is across from it... the door wide open.
CHAPTER THREE
ENTERING someone else's apartment is a tricky business. When the door's shut and locked, aside from the question of who may be inside, there's the feat of getting in; when it's unlocked, there's the knowledge that someone has been there, or is still there, perhaps with a weapon. And if it's wide open, like this one, chances are that nothing good awaits you.
I reach into my purse, take out my gun, and release the safety. My detective's heart is jumping hurdles, and I start to sweat. Carefully, I step into the apartment. My back against the wall, I wait, gun in both hands against my chest, pointed at the ceiling. I'm in the kitchen and I can see part of the living room. The place is a mess, and I assume it's been burglarized or tossed. I listen for sounds as if I have a stethoscope on the core of the flat. All I hear is my breathing. I don't think anyone's here, but there's a possibility I'm wrong. I've been known to be — once or twice!
I edge my way along the wall toward the living room. At the archway I step into the room and adopt the standard combat stance, gun held straight out in front of me, as I sweep the room from side to side. No one's there. Three closed doors lead to other areas. I figure one for a closet, one for a bedroom, and one for a bathroom. Someone could be hiding behind any of them, and this is not "Let's Make a Deal."
There are overturned chairs, broken glass, books swept from their shelves, CDs and tapes scattered everywhere. I move toward the first door. When I reach it I turn the handle slowly, shove it open, then, again in combat stance, move into the doorway. It's the
bathroom, a small WC. I do the same at the second door, which turns out to be a closet with only cleaning supplies inside. The third door is to the bedroom.
This room's in the same disarray as the living room. To my great relief, the closet door's open, allowing me to see it's unoccupied. What I assume were its contents are strewn around, along with those of emptied bureau drawers. There's no one in the apartment, dead or alive.
After I put on the safety, I return my gun to my bag, go back to the kitchen, close and lock the front door. I stand there as I recover my composure and confidence.
I know this isn't a burglary because a CD player, television, and VCR are still here. The apartment was tossed: someone's looking for something. Can this be a coincidence? Or is the break-in tied to the rape? This doesn't make sense, but neither does happenstance.
A key turns in the lock. I guess it's Lake, but I take no chances. I secure my gun and make myself ready.
As she comes through the door, I say, "Don't be afraid," and lower my gun.
My warning does nothing to curtail her frightened cry, but then she recognizes me and calms down.
"What are you doing here?" She looks around. "What happened?"
"I came to see you. The door was open, and I found the place like this."
For a moment, I think she believes I'm responsible for the toss, but this vanishes quickly. Once again I'm struck by her fragile beauty.
"Who would do this?" she asks guilelessly.
"I thought you might know."
"Why would I know?"
"It is your apartment, Lake."
"So what? Since when does the victim know who the burglar is?"
"I don't think you've been burgled. Take a look around, see if anything's missing."
I follow her through the rooms as she touches certain items, kicks at the remnants of her life with a toe, and idly picks up things as though this is someone else's rubble. We return to the kitchen. At a small wooden table we sit in two ladder-back chairs. I wait for her inventory, but she says nothing.
"Has anything been stolen?" I ask.
"Doesn't seem to be."
Would Kinsey Millhone believe her? I don't either.
"What's the point of this?" she says plaintively.
"I think we can conclude that someone was trying to find something. Have any idea what that might be?"
"No. Honestly."
Experience has taught me that when a person says honestly, or to tell the truth, 75 percent of the time he or she is lying.
"Do you think this has anything to do with the rape?" I ask bluntly.
Her cheeks flush like ripe peaches. "I can't see how it could."
"Can we please talk about it, Lake?"
"Why do you care? Has Ursula hired you or something?"
"There hasn't been any discussion of money. But yes, I guess you could say that. She's very worried about you."
"She think I'm going to kill myself or something dumb?"
"Yes."
Lake looks at me as if I'm an alien she's never seen before. "God, that's so typical."
"Of what?"
"Old people."
I try not to identify. "Meaning?"
"They always think the worst. At least Ursula and my mother do."
"Then you wouldn't do anything like that?"
"Kill myself? You kidding? I'd like to kill him. Why should I kill myself?" She goes to the refrigerator, gets a can of soda, starts to close the door, then asks me if I want one. It's a Diet Orange Slice, my favorite. I say yes.
When she sits opposite me again I say, "So a friend fixed you up?" as if our earlier conversation had never been interrupted.
Lake examines her long, clear, manicured nails, like an anthropologist looking for cracks that will offer clues. As they're in perfect repair, she abandons this diversion.
"No," she says softly.
"Then how did you get the date?" I ask.
After six or seven hours she murmurs, "The paper."
"A matchmaker ad?"
"No."
"A personal ad?"
&nbs
p; "Yes," she admits.
I feel like Ursula, wanting to ask how she could do such a thing, but before I can, she showers me with a deluge of words.
"I know you don't understand, but you don't know what it's like out there. You're married."
With a thrust of her chin she indicates my wedding band.
"I have some idea." I think of my single friends and their similar complaints.
"I thought it would be a good way to meet a man who liked the same things I do. Hell, I thought it would be a good way to meet a man. You can't just pick people up, you know."
I say nothing, remembering that I once urged a friend to place an ad. I'm unnerved to think of what might have happened, though Lorraine was trying to find a woman, not a man. Still...
"I was lonely," she submits, as if seeking a pardon.
"What's his name?"
She looks humiliated. "Joe Smith."
I pass quickly over the answer so she won't feel foolish. "Did you answer an ad or put one in?"
"Answered."
I'm glad. It'll make it easier. "Which paper?"
She hesitates. "The Village Record."
"What did the ad say?"
"I... I don't remember."
I find this odd. "How about the date of the ad, do you remember that?"
"Yes," she replies almost truculently. "December sixth."
"You didn't keep it?"
"No, but I have his letters," she breaks through my suspicions. "I'll get them."
I feel a quiver of excitement: letters will help.
When she returns, she's holding a blue velvet candy-sized box, the lid embossed with flowers.
"The letters are gone," she says, perplexed.
She hands me the empty box. "I guess we know now who and why," I say.
"Pardon?"
"The toss." I sweep my arm from side to side.
"You think he did this?" She's frightened.
"Who else would want those letters?"
"You're right."
"How many letters were there?"
"Four or five. Five."
"Handwritten or typed?"
"Typed. Well, on a printer. Near letter quality."
"You mean you think he used a computer?"
"Right." She frowns, as if computer is a dirty word.
Something bothers me. "Where did you keep this box?"