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

  "On a shelf in the back of my closet, behind some blankets."

  "You live alone, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why did you hide the letters? Who from?"

  "I just... it's habit."

  "Habit?"

  "My stepfather used to go through my things, looking for evidence."

  "Evidence of what?"

  She shrugs. "This and that, you know."

  "I don't."

  "Well ... drugs, mostly, I guess."

  "Did he have reason?"

  "No," she answers absolutely.

  "You said drugs mostly. Did he look for other things as well?"

  "Yeah."

  "What?"

  "Stuff that had to do with boys."

  Lake's embarrassed, as if she'd been the intruder, instead of her stepfather. I wonder if incest has played a part in her life. Lately it seems as though every other person I meet has had an incestuous experience. This isn't a good time to ask her.

  "Does anyone else have keys to this apartment?"

  "Why?"

  "I suppose I find it odd that you hid the letters from no one."

  "I told you —"

  "I know. Habit." I'm not buying. "How long have you lived away from home?"

  "Since I started school. Two years."

  "Do you hide other things?"

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know. That's why I'm asking you." I can see that she's becoming annoyed and impatient with me, so I quickly ask another question.

  "Can you tell me what was in the letters?"

  "Oh, you know," she says wistfully, probably remembering her expectations. "We traded information about ourselves. And ... sometimes he included lines of poetry."

  "His own?"

  "No. Quotes."

  "Do you know who he quoted?"

  "Mostly Browning, sometimes Millay."

  "What else?"

  "Nothing."

  "Think carefully. There might be something that could lead us to him. Why else would he steal the letters?"

  "I... I can't remember anything."

  I decide to let it go for now. "So when did you meet him?" She looks down at her hands, then picks at a scab on a knuckle. "Lake, why are you protecting him?"

  "It's not that."

  "Then what is it?"

  "I'm afraid. Especially after this," she says, meaning the toss.

  "Did he threaten you?"

  "He said if I told anyone ... he said he'd kill me."

  "And that's why you wouldn't go to the police?"

  "That and the circumstances. After all, it was a date, wasn't it?"

  "Date rape is becoming more common all the time."

  "Even so ... answering the ad and everything. It doesn't make me look good."

  I can't argue with her there. In the past few years the police have changed their attitude toward rape victims, but there's still skepticism from certain cops.

  "When did you meet him?" I ask again.

  "Three weeks ago."

  "And the rape occurred on your second date?"

  "Yes."

  "What does he look like?"

  I click on the silver Tiffany pen Kip gave me for Christmas and open to a clean page in my notebook.

  "He's tall, maybe six four. Thin. I don't know."

  "How old is he?"

  "Thirtysomething."

  "Eyes?"

  "Blue. A funny blue. I can't explain what I mean."

  "His hair?"

  "Brown."

  "How does he wear it?"

  "Regular."

  "Sideburns?"

  "You mean long or short? Short."

  "Any facial hair?"

  "No."

  "Distinguishing features? Big nose, pockmarks, details like that?"

  "That was the thing about him. He was so regular-looking. Handsome, but not unusual. Do you know what I mean?"

  "I think so. Where did you go on your first date?"

  "Uptown. We went to a restaurant called My Pierre, on Seventy- eighth, off Broadway. See, we'd agreed in the ... the letters that we adored French food. In fact, we're both Francophiles."

  There is something about the way she refers to the letters that puzzles me, but I don't know what it is, so I continue. "Was it a big or small place?"

  "Medium."

  Too bad. The smaller, the more chance I'd have of someone remembering them.

  "Oh, God," she says.

  "What?"

  "I'm talking about him like he's someone I care about, like we have a relationship. God." Her face folds like a lawn chair and she begins to cry.

  I wait, not touching her or saying anything to interrupt the flood of tears she needs to shed. When it's over I hand her a tissue. She dabs at her eyes, nose, and cheeks.

  "It seems so ludicrous. I'm telling you all this intimate stuff about this guy, and the goddamned creep raped me." She gives a small, fluty laugh. "It's not funny, but it is, you know?"

  "Yes. Can you go on?"

  "Sure."

  "Where did you go after dinner?"

  "The movies. A Lelouch double bill."

  Naturally. "And then?"

  "For coffee."

  "Let me guess. A French café?"

  She smiles wanly at my feeble attempt at humor. "Yes. One I'd never been to. I can't remember what street it's on or the name, but it's near the theater, which is on Seventy-fourth."

  "On a cross street?"

  "Yes. He had an espresso and I had a cafe au lait. We shared a dacquoise. Then he brought me home."

  "Did he want to come in?"

  "No. He didn't even try to kiss me goodnight. He said he'd call. I remember feeling fabulous while I got ready for bed. The phone rang. It was him."

  "What time was it?"

  "About midnight."

  "Late for a call."

  "Not this call. He wanted to say what a perfect evening it was and that he missed me already. He said it in French."

  Spare me. "Did he ask you for another date?"

  "Not then. He phoned the next day. Our schedules made it impossible to get together for almost a week. The first time I'd met him at the restaurant, but this time I invited him here."

  "You didn't think that was risky?"

  "No," she says defensively. "And you wouldn't have either."

  I don't comment.

  "I mean, God, he was so polite, so charming."

  "He came here and what happened?"

  "The second he was inside and closed the door, he grabbed me with both hands, turned me around, and pushed me toward the bedroom. I started to scream and he put a hand over my mouth, still forcing me ahead of him. I couldn't believe it was happening. You can't imagine." She met my eyes. "Oh. You can. Sorry."

  "It's okay. Go on."

  "Do you need to know the details?"

  "Not unless there was something different about it, like a signature."

  "Signature?"

  "Something kinky or unusual."

  "There wasn't."

  "After it was over, what then?"

  "That's when he threatened me. Then he let himself out. That's it." She closes her eyes as if trying to black out the images. "I lay there for hours. I felt paralyzed. Finally, about two in the morning, I was able to move, and I ran a bath."

  "When did you tell Ursula?"

  "A few days later. I couldn't tell her before. I couldn't go to classes or speak to anyone."

  "Why did you keep the letters?"

  Bewildered, she says, "I don't know. I forgot about them. I don't think I thought of them once until you asked about the ad. Funny, isn't it? If I had I would've torn them to shreds."

  I ask her for a recent photograph, and she gives me one of her sitting against a tree. I offer to help her clean up the place, but she says I won't know where anything goes, which is true.

  "I think you'd better call Ursula," I suggest.

  "What for?"

  "To ease her ancient mind," I say, smiling.

  Lake grins. "Okay."

  After advising that she call a locksmith, I urge her again to see a therapist or rape counselor. I take down her phone number and say I'll be in touch.

  When I hit the street, it's nearly 1:00. I'm starving. I have two choices: I can eat in a restaurant alone or join Kip at home.

  I choose Kip.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FOR THE LAST THREE YEARS Kip and I have owned a brown-stone on Perry Street. We occupy the first two floors and rent the third to our friends Rick and William. The fourth floor is a problem. The fourth is Mr. and Mrs. PITA. That's what we call them. It's an acronym for Pain In The Ass. Their real names are Alice and Josh Whitfield, and they're leftover hippies. They've lived in the apartment for fifteen years and pay $250 a month. With new tenants we could get more than $1,000. But our desire to evict them isn't only monetary.

  What we hate is that they smoke. Both pot and cigarettes. The smell permeates the halls and sometimes slithers under our door. We also fear they might nod out and set fire to our house. Their lease doesn't expire for another year, and then we'll have to take them to court. Terrific. It'll be a long, messy battle, and I don't even like thinking about it.

  Sometimes, as I approach our building, I can't believe that I own a part of the Apple. As a child growing up in New Jersey, I dreamed of living in Greenwich Village and owning one of the little houses that line its streets, but I never thought it would be possible.

  I go down the four steps to the front door. Inside, I walk to the back of the hall and use what was probably once the servants' entrance.

  The door leads to the kitchen, which we've completely redone with pine counters and cabinets. The square wood New Haven clock on the wall tells me it'll be about two minutes until Kip finishes. I open the fridge and stare in as though I'm looking at television.

  This is how Kip finds me.

  "Is it detective work you're doing, or are you on a treasure hunt?" she asks.

  I come out of my trance, and when I see her, her head cocked to one side, a small smile frolicking at the corners of her lovely lips, I feel it, almost as if I'm seeing her for the first time. This doesn't always happen. I mean, come on, eleven years is a long time to keep that response alive on a daily basis. Still, every once in a while that fluttery feeling gets me.

  Kip is a looker. Life has left its impression on her, so she doesn't have Lake's ethereal beauty, but to me she's captivating ... dazzling ... sublime. Others find her attractive, though perhaps don't use my superlatives to describe her.

  She has a patrician nose, brown eyes like liquid chocolate, wavy brown hair going gracefully gray, and a slender body (not as thin as it was when she was in her thirties, but who notices?) that's curvaceous and exciting.

  She wears a silk blue blouse with the sleeves rolled back twice at the cuffs, pleated navy slacks, no belt, and gray boots. I love the way she dresses: she's one of those people who look great in clothes, and she can carry off almost any style or color, except for shades of yellow, brown, and black. Black is better on me.

  "I think," she says to an imaginary crowd, "this one needs the type of help I'm not equipped to give."

  I laugh, close the fridge door, and put my arms around her. "Have I ever told you that you make my pulse race?"

  "Not in those words," she answers, and bends her head to kiss me.

  I'm continually astonished by how much she can still arouse me after all these years. We both have work to return to, so we draw back from what could turn into something more than a sexy kiss.

  "What are you doing?" she asks.

  "Kissing you."

  Smiling, she says seductively, "I know that. I know that very well. What I mean is, what are you doing here?"

  "I live here."

  "Very funny. You have a lunch date with Susan."

  "Oh, Christ," I say, slapping my forehead. "I forgot." I grab the phone.

  Susan answers on the first ring. "So you got a better offer, do I care?"

  "I'm sorry, Susie."

  "Don't tell me, let me guess. Michelle Pfeiffer hired you and insists on lunch or no deal."

  "I knew you'd understand."

  "Hey, call me crazy, but I know lunches with movie stars are more important than twenty-year friendships."

  "Are you mad?"

  There's a beat of silence, and then she hangs up. I laugh. We've been doing this for years when one of us asks a dumb question or says something ridiculous. I call her back.

  "What?" she answers.

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Same time?"

  "Yes."

  "Try not to forget, okay?" she says, laughing.

  "I'll try."

  Kip's heating up leftover vegetable soup. "Want some of this?"

  "Sure."

  "You must have a case."

  "How can you tell?"

  "Lauren, don't you think I know you by now? Staring into the fridge, forgetting your lunch date ... the absentminded detective. So, what and who?"

  We share our work with each other, though we never identify the people. Kip's a therapist, hypnosis her specialty, and we often talk about her patients (to me they're "patients"; to the rest of the world they're the more acceptable "clients") but always use code names. I tell her about Lake and wish I could use her name because Kip would love it. Lake Huron indeed. Instead, Lake becomes Youthful Beauty, Ursula becomes Big Sis, etc.

  When I finish my tale. Kip reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. "God, honey, does it bring everything back?"

  "In Technicolor," I say. She understands how one memory can lead to another and why I may be brooding about Lois. She'd crossed my mind, but I'd relegated thoughts of her to the "don't think about this now" department.

  Lois was my first lover. The road that led to her began when I was in the hospital after the rape and beating. A man named Jeff Crawford started the whole thing.

  I awoke one afternoon to find a handsome man sitting at my bedside. I thought he was Paul Newman until he introduced himself, leaving out the most important part of his identity. I assumed he was a cop.

  I hadn't been in love with Warren — I knew I preferred women, though I'd had no experience — but I'd liked him and I cared deeply about his murder. Later, in therapy, I learned that I unconsciously felt responsible for his death. Something like, If I'd been unafraid of what people thought of me and hadn't pretended to be heterosexual, we wouldn't have been there that night, and Warren wouldn't be dead. My doctor pointed out to me that Warren probably would've been there with another girl, and I knew that was true. Still...

  Jeff came to see me every day, and it never occurred to me to question why he was being so attentive to a stranger. I thought it was what all cops did on a case. When my mind and body had healed some, he told me he was FBI and brought me books of mug shots to see if I could identify my rapists (I always think of them as my rapists). For four days I pored over pages of photos, until I found the first one: Charlie West. West had so many priors that his sheet was six pages long. From West to Tom Bailey took only a day.

  Aside from what they'd done to Warren and me, they were wanted on a kidnapping charge. But the FBI couldn't prove anything and hoped to get West and Bailey through me. It worked. Of course, Charlie and Tom were back on the street in less than ten years. Even now I sometimes look over my shoulder to see if my rapists are there. My luck continues to hold.

  It was after the trial that Crawford approached me.

  "You have guts," he said. "We need someone like you. The way you look, no one would ever suspect you."

  I'd been planning to go to college and told him so.

  "Go. With our blessing. We'll use you only occasionally until you graduate. Think of it as a way to make up for Warren's death."

  He pushed the old guilt button, and before I knew it I'd capitulated. The summer before I went to Smith, the FBI trained me with pay. I told my parents I had an office job. I hated lying to them, but there was nothing else I could do. No one was to know.

  While in school, I avoided affairs with women because I knew the Bureau was watching me. There wasn't a doubt in my mind as to how J. Edgar would feel about having a lesbian working for him, and I desperately wanted to avenge Warren's death. So I continued going out with men and even had a sexual relationship with two.

  I didn't find it repulsive, but I didn't enjoy it. It wasn't because of the rape. The rape had its effect on me, but it was not the cause of my sexual preference. Long before, perhaps as a toddler, I was programmed to love women. Simply put, lovemaking with a man leaves me cold.

  When I graduated, I became a full-fledged agent. Within six months I met Lois, and we fell in love. She was four years older than I and had been an agent for three years. When it became apparent that she felt about me as I did about her, we consummated the relationship. It was completely clandestine, but we managed to be together a great deal.

  Two years after our affair began, Lois and I worked together for the first time. We were busting an underworld kingpin. Everyone on the case was nervous and edgy.

  To this day I'm not sure how it happened, and only God knows why. Three minutes into the operation, holding my gun in front of me as I'd been trained, I turned a corner of the perp's building. Dark though it was, I saw a glint of light bounce off a gun I believed was pointed at me. I fired, and I killed Lois.

  There was an investigation, and though I was exonerated, our affair was revealed, and I left the Bureau. Even if it hadn't surfaced that Lois and I had been lovers, I would've resigned. I had no heart for the job anymore. I had no heart at all.

  Devastated, I remained celibate for two years and drifted from job to job. I finally had a few relationships, but they didn't succeed. I kept looking for someone to take Lois's place, and it didn't work.

  When I was thirty-one, working for Pan Am as a reservation clerk, Jenny and Jill introduced me to Kip Adams, and everything changed. Kip (her real name is Christine, but her younger brother couldn't say it, and "Kip" stuck) urged me to do more with my life. She helped me see that I enjoyed investigative work: becoming a P.I. was her idea. I had no trouble getting a license and opened my office six months after Kip and I met.

  In spite of the past, I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I have what most people want: love and work I enjoy.

  "Want some more soup?" Kip asks.