Sunset City (14 page)

I opened the door onto neon and stools, a glowing cigarette machine and a window unit diligently laboring. I ordered whiskey from the bartender, a frayed girl with sloping shoulders. I took the drink to a booth in the corner where the wrinkles in the leather seat looked like veins.

I called Audrey and left a message, then I called her again, then I sent her a text. I sipped my drink and listened to songs on the jukebox. I listened to them carefully, as though music was a source of information, divorced from aesthetics or pleasure. I finished my bourbon. I tried Audrey again and hung up when the voice mail answered. I asked the bartender for the number of a cab and smoked cigarettes outside while I waited for it. I sat on a bench in front of the bar, studying the dandelions and sparkles of broken glass at my feet.

On the way home I wondered if Brandon killed himself on purpose. Of course I'd wondered the same thing about my mom. I used to get so scared each time she went off her meds. Not of the violence, or the way she suffered through withdrawal, though that was horrible enough. The longer she stayed off meds, the higher the risk of overdose once she started again. I stayed vigilant, waking her from naps once an hour or so, to make sure she wasn't comatose. I called 911 more than once. The first time I was thirteen.

I called the last time one month after my eighteenth birthday. I didn't think she meant to do it, but I had to consider the
timing. The social workers came around once, and I assured them I was fine. I was a legal adult. They couldn't send me to a foster home or some other horrific place. I finished out the school year, graduated with honors. Accident or not, I knew my mother loved me, because she waited until I turned eighteen. Sometimes, out of nowhere, I missed her like crazy.

At home I went upstairs and opened a beer. The phone rang.

“Charlotte, where are you?” Ash said. He sounded pissed off.

“I'm at home,” I said.

“Are you all right? You just wandered off. I wasn't finished with you.”

“Well,” I said. “You can come here, I guess.”

He said okay and hung up. A half hour later he knocked on my door.

“Listen, Charlotte. It's over. It was him.”

“What was him?”

“Brandon Young. If he were alive, we would be charging him right now with Danielle's murder.”

“I don't believe it,” I said.

“You don't have to believe it for it to be true.”

“Jesus,” I said.

I sat down on the couch and Ash took a chair.

“Was it suicide?” I said.

Ash shrugged. “We didn't find a note. Could be.”

I played with the label on my beer bottle, peeling it up at one corner.

“Do you have another one of those?” he asked me.

“Yeah, in the fridge.”

“Thanks.”

He got it and came and sat back down.

“Guess you're off duty?” I said.

“More or less. I'll finish up the paperwork over the next few days.”

“It was true, what you said, wasn't it?”

“What?”

“Danielle's murder. It did have to do with me. You said I was the thing that was different in her life. The anomaly.”

“Yeah?”

“If I hadn't told Danielle about the inheritance, she and Brandon would never have got in a fight about it, and they'd both still be alive.”

“Charlotte, you can't think that way.”

“Why not? It's true.”

“You could just as easily blame Sally, or Danielle's great-aunt for dying of old age. The only person responsible for her death is Brandon Young. He killed her. Not anybody else. Not you.”

I didn't say anything.

“What were you doing there, anyway? You could have been hurt.”

“Audrey took me there,” I said. “We were going to try and cheer him up.” I hadn't mentioned her earlier, but what did it matter now? The investigation was over. The cops would leave her alone. “She just wanted me along for company,” I said. “Because he was so depressed.”

“She left you there?”

I nodded. “She saw him, too. His body. She freaked out.”

“She was at the scene? Inside the house?”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn't think to tell me this?”

“Sorry.”

“Charlotte, these people, what are you doing with them?”

“You mean Audrey and Brandon?”

“Yeah. You didn't know them before, right? They were Danielle's friends, not yours. You don't belong with them.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“One thing it means is if you find a dead body, the person you are with should not just leave you there. You deserve better than that.”

“Oh, come on. He was her friend. I mean, I barely knew him, but she—”

“I'm just saying you deserve more.”

He leaned forward, touched my knee. I looked up. His face was kind, concerned. The skin around his eyes was textured in tiny crisscrosses. I wanted to touch it. I wondered how old he was. Forty, maybe? Not too old.

“I know you loved Danielle, you grew up together, I understand that. But it seems to me like she made a lot of bad decisions. I wouldn't necessarily use her life as a template. There's better ways to pick your friends.”

“Yeah? Like what?” I said, defensive.

“Like find people who are nice to you and help you and don't get you involved in their bullshit drama. And their drugs and all that.”

“What makes you think I'm any different from them?” I said. “Or from Danielle?”

“Charlotte, I'm a detective, remember?” He grinned at me.

He was right, maybe, but what did he want? I couldn't figure him out. Besides, Audrey needed someone. She was fucked up, sure, but her two best friends had just died. I was worried about her even now, though I also had to admit I was glad she wasn't there. And Ash was.

“I'm gonna get another beer,” I said. “Want one?”

“I should get going.”

“Lecture's over?”

“For now.” He smiled and squeezed my hand.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“How long was he like that?”

“You mean when did he die? We don't know yet. We only have a rough estimate. A couple of days, probably. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

“Try not to think about it. It's over.”

“Yeah, right. How do I not think about it?”

He sat next to me and put his arm around me. “Sorry,” he said. “I know it's not that easy. If you need someone to talk to about it, you can call me.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I breathed him in, warm skin and hair and faint sweat. We sat like that for a moment, and I thought if I could stay in his arms it might be possible to forget the smell of Brandon's body. To believe it was really over.

“Charlotte, once I've finished with the case, filed all the forms—like I said, it should take a few days. After that, say next week sometime, can I make you dinner?”

“You cook?” I said.

“I'm a great cook, actually.”

“Like a date?”

“Yes, like a date.”

“Isn't this kind of unprofessional?” I asked. But I could feel myself smiling.

“That's why I said next week. When the case is officially closed. Just say yes.”

“Okay. You can cook me dinner.”

“Good. I'll call you.”

I walked him to the door and he took my hand again and
kissed me on the cheek. I watched him go down the steps and get in his car. He waved and drove away.

After he left I undressed for a hot bath. I tried to imagine what it would be like to date a cop. I gave up on that idea because it was too strange and thought instead about his lips against my cheek.

I
t was late when I woke up, well into the afternoon. I had been drifting in and out of a dream full of dead people, Danielle and Brandon and my mom. In the dream I was dead, too. I didn't mind it. It was safe, quiet. I woke to sirens singing on the nearby freeway and an image in my head, the untied lace of Brandon's shoe. I thought I could smell the air in his house, too full of him, his body turning into particles you could breathe.

I tried to sort out my thoughts: Brandon killed Danielle. The conspiracy I had imagined with Sally and the money, none of that was real. Danielle got killed because Brandon lost his temper. I still couldn't imagine it, but like Ash had said, I didn't really know the guy. I thought of him saying I didn't belong with Danielle's friends, that I deserved better. I liked how concerned he was about me—it was nice, knowing somebody cared, was paying attention. But I recalled Audrey's face as she drove away and left me on the sidewalk in front of Brandon's house. I hoped she was okay. I made coffee and texted her again, then went for a run.

I picked up a sandwich and took it home, showered, ate.
Even though I was worried about Audrey, I felt better than I had since I found out Danielle was dead. It was relief, I realized. I was glad the whole thing was resolved. And maybe I was looking forward to seeing Ash next week. I wondered when he'd call.

A knock came at the door. I opened it to Audrey, standing on the stoop. She looked terrible, like she hadn't slept, like she'd been crying since I saw her last.

“Hi,” I said.

“Please,” she said. “Can I come in?” Her voice shifted and cracked.

I nodded, stepped back for her to enter. She embraced me, clung to me. Her breath on my neck made me shiver.

“What happened to you?” I said.

“I'm sorry. I couldn't, I didn't, I'm sorry . . .” She was a mess.

“Come sit down,” I said.

She wouldn't let go of me, she clutched my arm as I walked her to the couch.

“I'm going to get you a drink,” I said. “I'll be right back.”

She nodded but looked terrified. I brought the whiskey from the kitchen and poured it in glasses. I handed her one. I lit a cigarette and gave it to her.

“What'd you do? After you left?” I said.

“Finished off the coke,” she said. “Drove around.”

“I called you like ten times. I didn't have a ride home.”

“My phone died. I was pretty fucked up. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” I said. “It's no big deal.”

“The cops,” she said. “What happened?”

“They said he OD'd. They asked a ton of questions.”

“What'd you tell them?” she said. I'd never seen her look so anxious and vulnerable.

“Just that we went by there to check on him.”

“You mentioned me?” Her voice rose in pitch. “Why did you do that?”

“You don't have to worry, Audrey. They're saying Brandon killed Danielle.”

“That's bullshit.”

“Audrey, listen to me. Brandon did it, then killed himself. The cops won't bother you about anything now.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Ash told me.”

“And you believe him,” she said. “You think Brandon killed her?”

“The cops do. I didn't know him that well.”

And now, I thought, I never would. I'd liked Brandon, I genuinely had. But what did I know about anything? I wasn't a cop, I wasn't even close to Danielle, not anymore. I'd never seen her and Brandon together, didn't know what they were like. There were plenty of reasons to think he was guilty.

“When did you last talk to him?” I said.

“I went over there a few days ago. A day or two after the funeral. It seems like so long ago.”

“I wonder if he was already planning it then.”

“What? Killing himself? He didn't say anything like that. He was crying. We talked about Danielle.”

“You really don't think he could have killed her?”

“I don't trust cops,” she said. “He was my friend.”

Her voice fell apart at the last few words. She was shaking. She looked so frightened and confused. As much as I wanted it to all be over, I kind of agreed with Audrey. It was too hard to imagine Brandon killing Danielle. Suicide I could believe, but not murder. Not like that.

“Audrey,” I said. “I'm sorry, we can talk about something else.”

“Let's go somewhere,” she said.

“Okay.”

We took my car and traveled east along the bayou, a black emptiness that smelled like soggy garbage. We rolled down the windows and I listened to the air change pitch at each tree we passed. She loaded her pipe and handed it to me, and we smoked. Audrey seemed calmer, now that we were moving.

I followed her directions, steering the car through streets I didn't recognize until we came to a corrugated metal building with a neon Lone Star sign in the window. Inside were two pool tables, a bar, and some scattered mismatched chairs. It was muggy and smelled like stale beer and piss. Audrey engaged a squirrelly guy in whispered conversation and went with him into the men's room. I ordered Jack Daniel's, which managed to taste both watered down and too bitter. After a couple of minutes the guy walked out of the bathroom and Audrey waved me over. I took my drink in with me and she locked the door.

“It's shit, but it's not nothing,” she said, unwrapping a twist of plastic.

We each had a bump. It
was
shit, dirty and speedy. A grain of it lodged in my sinus cavity. It hurt. I tried not to touch the walls in the filthy men's room, which made no sense because I undoubtedly had already snorted up whatever diseases were in there, along with the rat poison in the coke. I relaxed against the damp concrete. I was so tired of worrying about everything. It was good to surrender. I gritted my teeth. It was good.

We went to Audrey's place. She lived nearby, on the first floor of a shabby apartment complex. Her unit was bland and cheap, carpeted in beige. A thrift-store couch upholstered in pink and mauve floral tapestry stood against a windowless
wall. The walls were bare, the furniture buried under clothes, magazines, half-drunk Diet Cokes.

I made an attempt to clear the table, piling crumpled receipts and dirty dishes and envelopes of Val-Pak coupons. Audrey plugged in her phone, then poured two big glasses of vodka over ice and brought them to the kitchen table. She set to work chopping the rest of the coke, smashing the crystals into dust. She held her hair and did a line before sliding the plate to me. I was glad to see her looking more like herself.

“Guess I'll have to find another gig now,” she said.

I hadn't thought about the fact that she'd be out of a job. “What will you do?” I asked.

“He's not the only dude around with a video camera.”

“My old job is probably hiring. You could be a barista.”

“Yeah, perfect,” she said. “You're hilarious.” She snorted another line. “This friend of mine moved to Phoenix. She said the money's great, dancing. And it's not humid.”

“Humidity's good for your complexion. I read somewhere it prevents wrinkles.”

“Who cares?” she said. “It's not like we're gonna get old.”

I wanted to argue with that, but then I thought of Danielle, and Brandon. My mom was thirty-nine when she died. Why would I think we'd be any different?

“We should go,” Audrey said. “You and me. Why not?”

“Phoenix?” I said. It sounded like nowhere.

“Okay, how about Alaska? Brazil? Wherever.”

“I don't have a passport,” I said.

“Me, either. We could try California. Out west. This town is such a shithole. We could leave right now and be in El Paso in twelve hours. We're high, we won't get sleepy. Besides. What's here for me anymore?”

I looked up, moved by the desolation in her tone.

“I've always lived here,” I said.

“God, I've been everywhere. I don't think I've stayed anyplace a whole year since I was fifteen.”

“After your mom died?”

“Yeah. And my stepdad died that same year.”

“You didn't tell me that before. How awful.”

“Yeah, well. I didn't care. I hated him.”

“Why? What was he like?”

“He was a drunk fucking asshole. He started fucking me as soon as my mom went in the hospital.”

“Shit, Audrey. How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah,” she said.

She leaned over the plate and inhaled a line. She cut one for me, but I didn't want any more. I felt woozy and twitchy. Audrey took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it, started talking again.

“We did it every night. He was ugly . . .” She shuddered and took a sharp drag off the cigarette. “I used to get mad at my mom for marrying this ugly man. I wished he was handsome—I thought it would be easier. I felt shitty being mad at her when she was sick, and she needed me to be strong. She always said that to me. ‘Be strong for me, pumpkin.' I tried to. I tried hard. After she died . . . He drank as soon as he woke up in the mornings. He was always pissed off.”

Her voice was oddly calm, didn't match what she was saying. I was horrified, thinking of Audrey as a child, helpless and alone. I couldn't see how she could be so fun, laugh so much, even while all this had happened to her. Maybe I'd been lucky,
with no dad around. I touched her hand across the table. She didn't notice.

“I dressed up in her clothes for him. My mom was gorgeous, I mean dazzling. I wore her slips and her dresses but they didn't fit right, they were too big. He said I looked too much like her, and he couldn't stand to see me. Before, that's why he liked me, 'cause I reminded him of her except not sick. And then, boom, he changed his mind. He didn't like me anymore. He hated me. It didn't matter how good I was, how hard I tried.”

“Audrey, I don't understand,” I said. “You wanted him to—”

“He was all I had,” she said. “He wouldn't fuck me or let me do the things he liked. Rub his neck, or get him more ice for his drink, we didn't have to have sex. He wouldn't. He didn't even take ice anymore, he drank from the bottle. One day he just shoved me out and locked the door. He didn't want me. He wanted to drink.”

The bitterness in her tone scared me. She bent over the coke and inhaled, pushed the plate to me.

“Do it,” she said. “Be high with me. Please.”

My heartbeat was a rapid flutter and my jaw hurt from clenching. But how could I say no? I snorted the line she cut for me.

“Danielle knew,” she said. “Danielle knew the whole story. If she were here I wouldn't have to talk about it.”

“We don't have to,” I said. “But it's good that you told Danielle.”

“Why?”

“Because she was your friend. She cared about you.”

“Yeah,” she said. “And now she's dead. And bloody, and . . .”

I reached across the table and hugged her. She felt stiff in my arms.

“It's okay,” I said. “You can trust me, too.”

She stared at me for a second and said, “It was fucked up.”

“It sounds totally fucked up. It's horrible.”

“You don't even know what I'm talking about. I mean the night he died. He passed out on the couch and he wouldn't wake up. I kicked him, and all he did was groan. I took every single bottle. He drank those big handles of vodka. Half gallons. We always had extras, he was afraid of not having enough. I drank a little and poured out the rest. Splashed it on him. I had to wake him up, that's what I was trying to do. He was out cold and I just kept pouring. I soaked his clothes and the couch cushions with vodka. And the carpet around him. I spilled it everywhere. It got on the walls, the curtains, on the garbage piled up, old newspapers. I knew it was bad, but it was fun, too, like kind of satisfying.”

“Shit. What'd he do?” I asked.

“He didn't wake up,” she said.

“He was dead?”

“No. He died in the fire,” she said.

“What fire?”

“It lit up really fast. I didn't expect that, I was only trying to wake him up.”

“You set a fire?”

“I told you it was fucked up. I lit a match, and I ran and hid in our neighbor's barn and watched. It smelled terrible. I walked all night to the interstate.”

“You killed him?”

“You hate me now,” she said.

“No,” I said. “No, of course not.”

“Don't bullshit me. Tell me the truth. You hate me.”

“Audrey, you were just a kid. You didn't know what you were doing.”

But I watched her, wary. She rose from the table, opened a
closet door, and pulled out a duffel bag. She shoved in makeup and clothes.

“Come with me,” she said.

She dropped the bag, knelt in front of me, and laid her head in my lap. I petted her hair. Her story broke my heart. I didn't know what to say. Then I realized that nothing had changed except my knowledge. Nothing had changed for Audrey. She had always lived with this—half an hour ago, five years ago. It would never leave her alone.

“Please,” she said. “We could go to Hawaii.”

“Hawaii sounds cool,” I said.

“We could go there for Danielle. Like, to honor her.”

“For Danielle? What do you mean?” I asked.

“'Cause she never got to. She was gonna move there with the money.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“The money from the land. From her mom. She was getting a shitload. She was all excited, saying Brandon was right, with that much cash she could quit working, go off somewhere. She went there once and she loved it, she said she could live on the beach and go to massage school or some shit like that.”

“But she fought with Brandon. She didn't listen to him.”

Audrey shrugged. “She changed her mind. She talked to her mom and worked it out so she was getting way more money.”