Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery (25 page)

Andrey couldn’t bring himself to look at me, and I got a flash of the man who looked so vulnerable in the coffee shop, talking about how Rachel had left him once Michael filed for divorce. “Take your time getting out of here,” Andrey said, gesturing to the small fridge under the super’s desk. “There’s water in there if you’re thirsty.”

“Thanks.”

“Just do me a favor and close the door to the office when you leave.” He pivoted on his heel, gave me an awkward salute, and was gone.

I’d had more humiliating moments in more unlikely places. And yet sitting there, half-drunk, half-exposed, my bare ass on a ratty old couch I wouldn’t want to touch with a gloved hand, I felt incredibly ashamed and disappointed in myself. I’d worked so hard for my sobriety.
Damn it, Clyde.

Reaching under the couch for one of my shoes, I felt something hard and cool. It was a key ring. Each of the keys was clearly marked—
Super’s Office
,
Roof
, and so on. One was simply marked
Keys
. Andrey would be looking for these since he couldn’t unlock the front door without them. I quickly finished dressing and had my hand on the door to go upstairs when it dawned on me that I was in the super’s office—with keys.

Despite my warnings from Naomi Zell to back off the story, I couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass me by. Olivia had been clobbered with a crystal vase; her pregnant girlfriend had been suffocated and stuffed into a garbage bag and suitcase, and someone thought I knew more than I did—why else would I have been drugged? Plus I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was somehow responsible for what had happened to these women. The text. If only I’d read it on Friday night.
It’s time you know the truth
.

Yes, it was time. My eyes settled on an army-green lockbox mounted to the wall above the light switch. A second later I had it open. Someone had done a good job marking each of the hooks with its corresponding apartment number. I found Olivia’s key, slipped it off the hook, and closed the lockbox just as the doorknob turned behind me. A split second later, Andrey stood in the doorway. “Did I leave my keys down here?” he asked.

I held them up. “Just found them.” He walked over to me and grabbed them, finally bringing himself to look at me. “You OK?”

I wiped a film of perspiration from my upper lip. “Actually I don’t feel so well. Could I take another minute?”

His eyes danced around the room. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving me there, but he nodded anyway.

Climbing sixteen flights of stairs left me winded, sweaty, and more sober than I’d been in the super’s office. For the first time, it occurred to me that I was not only risking my career, I was also breaking the law and had no idea what I hoped to find. The police would have cleared out any important pieces of evidence days ago. And yet, there I was, key in hand.

I opened Olivia’s front door and felt for the light. I stood in the foyer, the white marble cool beneath my bare feet, the light bouncing off the gleaming surface of an old Venetian mirror. Someone had cleaned. There was no sign of the crime-scene unit’s handiwork, no fingerprint dust, no tape, no little evidence placards littered here and there. The kitchen was spotless, as were the mirrored dining room, hallways, and bathrooms. But in the living room, squares had been cut from the striped upholstery of Olivia’s sofa and the sisal rug near it. The police had evidently found something in those places—bodily fluids were my guess—which they had then tested for DNA.

Doubling back on my steps, I crossed the vestibule leading to Olivia’s small home office, a guest bedroom, and finally Olivia’s master suite. It was large and spacious, and smelled like the powdery perfume she favored. I sat on the tufted stool of a vanity. Dozens of photographs were stuck inside the frame of the mirror, most depicting Olivia with the children she’d helped over the years, and a few dated back to her youth. At the bottom corner of the mirror, I found a pair of photographs of us together. One was a snapshot she’d recently asked a tourist to take of us in the park. The other dated back to our childhood. We were in our bathing suits, towels wrapped around our thirteen-year-old bodies.

I remembered the summer that picture was taken. The Kravises had invited me to stay at their house on Nantucket, a gray-shingled giant overlooking the sparkling blue ocean. I was headed into the eighth grade, and would have been happy staying in a tent if it enjoyed a cool breeze and meant escaping the city’s brutal summer cocktail of heat and humidity. We passed our days swimming in the pool and in the ocean, making friendship bracelets on the veranda, and hassling the cook for hot-fudge sundaes and macadamia-nut cookies in between mealtimes. Every once in a while our presence was requested at a breakfast or lunch helmed by Olivia’s stepmother—Charles was always working and never in sight—but for the most part, we were left to our own devices and whims.

My stay happened to coincide with the Fourth of July weekend. That year the Kravises had planned a gigantic party—200 guests, including a handful of lawmakers, television pundits, and movie stars. There was a twenty-piece band, passed canapés, and an impressive fireworks display after sundown. There was a big white tent, patriotic ice sculptures, bartenders dressed up like George Washington and Ben Franklin. Olivia and I had been repeatedly instructed to stay away from the festivities, but we couldn’t resist the call of miniature éclairs and sugar-glazed cream puffs in the shape of tiny swans. Dressed in our nightgowns and slippers, we made it to the kitchen only to discover the sweets had already been moved to an outdoor buffet. I wanted to go back upstairs, but Olivia insisted no one would notice us so we forged into the crowd. I lost sight of her and spun around, knocking into Charles. I’d spilled his glass of red wine on his white shirt and khaki pants. He laughed it off, ruffling my red waves under his giant hand and asking me what my name was. “You’re Tipsy Shaw’s daughter?” I remember him asking as Monica escorted me back to Olivia’s room on the mansion’s third floor. A few minutes later, a member of the house staff arrived with Olivia in tow, and kept careful watch over us for the remainder of the evening. The following morning, I was sent home. That fall, Olivia was sent to Switzerland. It was years before we reconnected again.

I plucked the photo out of the mirror frame, dislodging a few others I hadn’t meant to disturb. One of them fell behind the vanity. I felt for it, loosening a bunch of papers and envelopes that must have gotten jammed behind there in the same way. I stuffed what I could of them in my purse, along with the photo I’d wanted, before scanning the room for places Olivia might have hidden important documents or love letters. There was nothing under the bed or the mattress, nothing in the bedside table. I hit the home office next, plowing through more drawers. There I just found bills, pamphlets, and more business cards, all seemingly work-related.

I glanced at my watch. More than ten minutes had passed since Andrey left me in the super’s office. I needed to get back downstairs, return Olivia’s key, shut the door to the super’s office, and make my excuses to Andrey. Grabbing my shoes by the front door, I locked the apartment from the outside and flew down the stairs to the basement to return her key to the lockbox, then back up to the lobby, pausing for a minute to regain my breath.

Andrey didn’t look happy to see me. He opened the building’s door with a clenched jaw and followed me outside. Beneath the hunter-green awning he grabbed my arm roughly. “Where were you?”

“What do you mean?” I asked lightly.

He dropped my arm and lit a cigarette. “I saw you took Olivia’s key. Is that why you came here? Do you know what that makes you?”

I froze. “What?”

“Why’d you come here?”

“I was drunk. The rest should be obvious. I have a problem, Andrey.”

“So you’re a fucking sex addict?” He’d meant it as a joke.

I hesitated too long.

“You?” He blew smoke through his nostrils, deciding whether or not to believe me. “Why were you up in Olivia’s apartment?” he finally asked.

“I didn’t want to vomit all over your boss’s office, so I grabbed Olivia’s key. It was the only thing I could think of doing.”

“There’s a bathroom in the laundry room.”

“I didn’t know that. Do you really think I’m the kind of woman who would fuck someone to get into a victim’s apartment? I may have a boatload of issues, but let me tell you something: If I’d really wanted to get into Olivia’s apartment, I would have just asked you, or the building manger, or even the PD. I could have gotten in there any number of ways. And none of them would have involved taking my clothes off. But, hey, if that’s the kind of person you think I am, then fuck you for real.”

“Is it because I’m a doorman?”

I stabbed him in the chest with my index finger. “That’s your issue, buddy. Not mine.”

Andrey threw his cigarette to the ground and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me into him.

I pushed my palms against him. “Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me why you stopped.”

“Call me crazy, but I don’t like being called a whore.”

“That was just now. I’m talking about before, downstairs.”

“Because of Olivia. And because you lied to me about when things ended with Rachel.”

He let me go, his hands dropping to his sides.

“Is the baby yours?”

“I didn’t know about the baby,” he said sheepishly.

“I want the truth. Right now. What’s the story with you two? Were you sleeping together the whole time? Was she just screwing Olivia to get access to her money, so she could leave her husband, set up her life here, and be with you?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then
tell
me what it was like.”

He expelled a breath. “I fell for her. She was a beautiful woman. She didn’t need to be with an asshole like him. I only wanted to help her. She broke up with me, just like I told you, but then it started up again after she got together with Olivia.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“Because I know how it looks.”

“Did Michael ever hit Rachel, force her into sex? Rockwell has a history of taking what he wants, with or without permission.”

“He told her that if she left him, he would destroy her. Her friends would turn on her, and because of the DUI he’d get full custody of the kids. Rachel needed money to fight him in court. Olivia was happy to help.”

“Is that where Olivia came in? With that fat checkbook of hers?” I knew my friend. She gave freely and without strings. I’d paid her back every cent she’d lent me over the years, but only because I’d insisted. To a woman like Rachel, who’d had to claw herself out of nowhere to get to where she was, Olivia was an easy mark, a ticket to freedom from an abusive husband. I believed what Andrey had told me, but none of it justified how Rachel had used Olivia. I felt a fresh surge of anger. “Olivia got you your job. You two made a fool out of her, you two, screwing under her nose while Olivia wrote the checks. Is that why Rachel had Olivia get you hired here? So you two could fuck whenever you wanted?”

“I needed a job,” he said meekly. “The sex was—”

“What? A bonus?” I wanted to spit in his face and tell him how much he disgusted me. “When was the last time you and Rachel had sex?”

“Friday, after my shift. Olivia had already left for work. That was one of our usual times.”

“How could you not know about the baby?” My voice trembled with fury.

“How was I supposed to know? She didn’t tell me. She wasn’t showing.”

“Did you kill her?”

He put his hands up in the air. “No! I loved her. And I would have loved that baby.”

“So much so that you were ready to fuck me just three days after her body was found?”

He chuckled bitterly. “I’m not the one who showed up here begging for it.
You
came looking for
me
.”

I started to walk away, but then I spun around, jabbing him one last time in the chest. “You’re sick.”

As I stormed off, I heard him light another cigarette. “You tell anyone about Rachel and me, I’ll tell them about tonight and how you sucked me off for the keys to that apartment.”

Tuesday

Tuesday

I
slept at the office that night. I’d forgotten my keys at work and by the time I got to the bureau, I couldn’t walk another step. I made a bed out of Georgia’s couch and throw pillows and a down-filled coat she kept in her closet functioned as my duvet. Then I set the alarm on my phone for half-past five.

Morning arrived with a throbbing headache, crick in my neck, and a mouth that tasted like a garbage truck had exploded in a cotton mill. Plus I couldn’t stop sweating. I finally knew the truth about Rachel and Andrey, but if I told anyone I would lose my job. What had I been thinking?
You know better, Clyde.

I dressed in yesterday’s work clothes, washed my face, and reapplied my makeup and deodorant in the ladies room. Back at my own desk, I went through the contents of my clutch. It was still stuffed with the papers I’d stolen from Olivia’s bedroom: A handful of business cards; an invoice from a law firm; a few empty envelopes, one of which was stamped with a return address to a company called Orchid Cellmark. I put the picture of Olivia and me in our bathing suits in one of the envelopes and stuffed it in my red messenger. I left the rest of the papers in my desk drawer before leaving the office in search of coffee and breakfast. When I came back, about half an hour later, there was a note from Diskin on my chair informing me that he’d assigned another producer to Alex on the Kravis case. Today was a new day, a fresh start. I was off Olivia’s case.