Beware Beware (30 page)

“So we went out, finally,” she continued. “He took me to a nice restaurant he could barely afford, and we had a bottle of wine and went back to his apartment after. The next thing I actually remember is waking up. Jamie lived in this shoe box East Village apartment, with a bed and a dresser and a tiny stovetop. I got to know it well enough, but that was the first time I ever saw it. He was at the stove, cooking breakfast, and the whole room smelled like bacon. I could hear it sizzling in the pan, and he was whistling along, some cheerful good-morning tune. I panicked. He was naked except for an apron, and when I looked at myself, I saw that I was naked, too. I almost screamed.”

I cringed. It was a blessing that I'd woken up with Lori in my bed.

“But he must have heard me waking up, because he turned around and gave me the most radiant smile. A few minutes later I was wearing one of his T-shirts and we were eating breakfast in bed. After breakfast, we slept together, and I told myself there was nothing wrong.”

“How long did you believe that?”

“Months,” she said. “Six months.”

“Wow.”

“It wasn't hard, honestly. Jamie can be so sweet, and I truly believe that he loved me.”

“Were you happy with him?”

She shrugged. “In retrospect, I think there was something off the whole time. But I don't really know. It's possible I was happy. I can hardly remember.”

“Were you in love with him?”

“I think so,” she said. “But it must have been complicated. It's hard to bring back what it felt like to be with him then.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“We went out to the same restaurant for our six-month anniversary. We drank another bottle of wine, and we went back to his apartment to drink some more. We were on the couch pouring out whiskey when I saw him put those white tablets in our drinks, one each. And I asked what they were.”

“And he told you?”

“He didn't think he'd done anything wrong.”

“Did you blow up at him?”

She shook her head. “I got mad at him, but I let it sit. Then I got angrier and angrier every day. The thing is, it still took me a while to call it what it was. I'd been raped before, by two different men, and this was not the same thing.”

“Jesus,” I said. “What is that they say about lightning?”

“The thing about lightning, it strikes one in maybe ten thousand people. Rape is about as common as disaster can get. And here's something else fucked up: Once you get raped, you're more likely to get raped again. It's like biting your tongue.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I guess something like that just leaves a mark. Sometimes it breaks you altogether.”

We stood in silence, and I thought about the horrors condensed into Daphne's life. We were the same age and, for a moment, that seemed remarkable. But twenty-seven years had been a lifetime enough for my own sorrows—maybe that's why we'd found each other. I felt, at last, like I understood her.

“So, how'd you do it?” I asked quietly, dropping my cigarette to the ground.

She didn't insult me by playing dumb. She didn't say anything at all.

“I didn't ask you why you stayed with Jamie,” I said. “You realized he'd raped you six months into your relationship. I know you were together a lot longer than that.”

“Are you asking why?”

“No,” I said. “I know why. You knew he'd get away with it, like your stepdad and Tilley before him. Especially after you dated him for that long, and all your friends saw you all happy together. No prosecutor would have gone after him, and before that, you wouldn't even have tried. But three times was enough. You decided to get justice.”

Her face remained impassive, not a flicker of indignation, not a flinch of denial.

“So you set Jamie up for Tilley's murder. Two birds, one stone.” I kept my eyes on her as I lit another cigarette. “Of course that means you killed Tilley. And I understand why, but the how looks pretty complicated. You must have planned it a long time.”

“I didn't kill him,” she said. “I couldn't have killed him. I was in New York.”

“I know. You weren't the one who slit his wrists, but you gave the order. Colson did the rest.”

Her eyes betrayed the slightest surprise at hearing the name.

“It didn't occur to me when I met him,” I said. “I guess I assumed your brothers were black.”

When I looked back up at her, the shade of surprise was already gone. Her expression was calm and yielding.

“You know what they say about assuming,” she said.

“So your dad's black and your mom's white.”

“My mom is Mexican, but both my brothers can pass as white. I'm the one little black sheep of the family.”

I knew her childhood hadn't been happy, and I couldn't help but imagine that her color came into play. She might have had her mother's exact set of features, but her blackness would have aligned her with her departed, anonymous, detested father. I wondered if it made it easier for Rudy to dehumanize her, and as a result, to rape her.

“I used to pretend I was adopted. I hoped for it. I looked into it after I left home. No such luck. That feckless woman really is my mother.”

My mind raced, spurred by sympathy, and I felt a keen desire to sit down and ask her about her childhood—not just the abuse, but the smaller alienations, her experience as a black girl in a white household, her relationship with her mother. But I willed myself to focus on the things I needed to know.

“You told me you weren't in touch with your family. But maybe you and Colson have a stronger bond.” I hesitated, but it was too late to be delicate. “Did Rudy abuse him, too?”

The question hung between us, and I grew keenly aware of an aggressive dog in the corner of my vision, mounting its playfellows to the scolding dismay of his owner.

She shook her head slowly, parting her lips. “Not in the way you're thinking,” she said. “Rudy wasn't into boys.”

She didn't mention that Rudy and Colson were blood related, and I wondered if she thought that mattered.

“I was five when Cole was born, and I didn't like him one bit. My mom loved him and I knew even at that age that I was the interloper. There's normal sibling jealousy, and there's the kind that lasts because it's based on something hurtful and real. But Cole loved me. He'd follow me around, and he'd cry when I'd tell him to go away.

“And because he loved me, and couldn't leave me alone, he was the only one who noticed when Rudy started abusing me. He couldn't have been seven years old when he started knocking on the door, hollering for us to let him in. He didn't know what was going on, just that it was evil. One day, he hid in a closet for hours, so he was there when Rudy dragged me in and took off my clothes. When I started crying, Cole jumped out and screamed, ‘Daddy! Leave Lani alone!'

“I was only twelve, you know, but I felt so old, like a sphinx or an oracle. So when I saw him burst out of that closet, I swear to God, Song, I saw exactly what would happen. I knew Rudy wouldn't stop, and what could a little boy do to make him? After that, Cole was part of Rudy's entertainment. For the five years until I left home, Rudy took every chance he could to get me and Cole in a room together, and treat us however he liked.”

I wanted to plug my ears but I needed her to keep talking. “Until you left home? It stopped then?”

“He still beat him, but like I said, Rudy never touched him in that way. Not directly.”

She gave me a look full of dire meaning, and I nodded to let her know that she didn't have to explain.

“So when I told you I wasn't in touch with my family, that was mostly true. Cole and I, we didn't keep in touch much after I left. It was better that way, for both of us.”

“Daphne,” I said in a near whisper. “How did Rudy Roberts die?”

She smiled. “Car accident. You can look into it if you'd like, but Cole and I had nothing to do with it.”

“Did you go to the funeral?”

“I did. To make sure he was dead. I shouldn't have.” She chuckled. “I thought it was karma, you know? Him getting cut down like that. But hundreds of people came to his funeral, cried for him, talked about how much he loved his family. Only Cole and I knew, and we didn't say a word to each other.”

“That was eight years ago, right? When did you see each other again?”

“I heard he was getting in trouble through Sam, my other brother. I'd hear updates now and then—Cole was skipping school, Cole joined a gang, Mom found a gun and ran him out of the house. And then after the thing with Joe, I wanted to talk to him more than anyone else. So I saw him before I left for New York. I haven't seen him since.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I don't blame you, Song, but for what it's worth, I'm not going to lie to you anymore. You know more about me than anyone else in the world. It hasn't been easy letting that happen, but it's all there now. If you have no faith in my character, at least believe that my store of secrets is all but exhausted. You can have at whatever's left.”

There was something persuasive about this argument, maybe its total lack of dependence on any sort of virtue. She was cornered now, and I had enough clarity to see through her at last. I picked up the thread. “So you haven't seen him, then. But you've talked to him. You've been talking to him ever since you found out about Jamie.”

She nodded.

“And that's when you hatched the plan. You got Jamie the job, convinced him to move out here.” I paused. “You said Colson got Jamie into dealing. How?”

“It's weird, hearing you talk this out. Like I made this intricate clock and you want to rebuild it cog by cog.” She sighed. “I don't like to think of myself as calculating, but I guess I am. I had to think hard to make every piece of it.”

“You said you'd tell me whatever I want to know.”

“I am telling you,” she said. “Cole kept an eye on Jamie from the day he came in.”

“He trailed him. Or he had Donnie or someone else do it.”

She was quiet.

“I don't know if Colson told you, but I saw him the day before yesterday. He shot a man in the head not ten feet away from me.”

She closed her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“You knew, I guess.” I peered at her with new wonder. “Shit. Of course. You told him not to hurt me, didn't you?”

“He didn't hurt you, did he?”

“Not physically, no. But I gather psychological hurt wasn't off limits. Or rather traumatizing me was the explicit goal.”

“I don't expect you to thank me.”

“I wasn't about to,” I said. “Anyway, he was watching Jamie and saw one of his benders. And what, Jamie happened to be buying from one of his underlings?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “Cole isn't really a drug dealer. From what I understand, he isn't part of anything that organized.”

“What is he, then?”

“He's a man on the fringes of things. The fringes of fringes. He has ties with every shadowy group in town, but he isn't part of any one of them.” She squinted, thinking. “But he has everyone scared of him. He surfaces once in a while, gets whatever he needs, and disappears again. And he always gets what he needs. No one in his right mind will disobey a phantom.”

“So he got Jamie an in. But why?”

She shrugged. “For one, it was easy. For another, I guess—” She paused and a harsh smile played on her lips. “To get him dirty. Drug dealers are as hated as whores.”

“Well, something worked. The world thinks Jamie's a murderer,” I said. “How did the Young King pull it off?”

She hesitated, and for a moment, I thought she'd go back to denial, faced now with the moment of irrevocable confession.

“You want details? Ask, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“How'd he get in?”

“During the party. He got in like all the other guests. No one knew everyone who was there.”

“Didn't people see him?”

“Sure, people saw him. He was a handsome white boy dressed for a party in Hollywood. He wasn't famous or weird, so he was practically invisible. He has a knack for blending in, apparently. He told me no one would mention him, and no one has. Probably none of the other guests could pick him out of a lineup.”

“But Tilley wasn't murdered when the party was in full swing. Did he just hang out at the party like any normal guest?”

“He milled around for a while, smiling with a drink in one hand. He didn't talk to anyone, but he didn't avoid interaction, either. After enough time to be plausible, he started stumbling and pretended to pass out on a couch away from the heart of the traffic. He wasn't the only one collapsed like that, and no one paid him any attention. Later, when the crowd was thinning out, he stole upstairs and did the same thing on Joe's bed.”

“Lucky he didn't bring a girl up, I guess.”

“Sure, that could've pushed us to a plan B, and that would've been inconvenient. But I waited a long time to get even with Joe. There was no reason it had to be that night.”

“Then what? He just waited for Joe to get naked and pass out in the tub?”

“He stayed there until Joe came in to go to bed. Joe saw him right away—he wasn't hiding, just acting drunkenly invasive. So Joe woke him up and said the party was over, and that he should probably figure out how to leave.”

“Who else was there at that point?”

“Just Jamie. It was late, around five in the morning. Everyone else had left a while earlier.”

“So how did Colson play it? Did he try to befriend him or did he get right to it?”

“He didn't have to befriend him,” she said. “He had a gun.”

I pictured the scene: the transformation of the drunk, slovenly idiot to Young King Cole, with those steely eyes in his head and a gun in his hand. It was hard to pity Joe Tilley, but I could feel his fear in my heart right then. It was a particular fear that I'd never forget, one I'd shared with no known persons still among the living.